Marclay PDF
Marclay PDF
Marclay PDF
view at White Cube Mason’s Yard, London (15 October–13 November 2010). Photo: Todd-White
Photography, © Christian Marclay, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery, New York and White Cube,
London.
JCS 3 (1) pp. 2–25 Intellect Limited 2014
MARGOT BOUMAN
The New School
Abstract Keywords
Like other postproduction work by contemporary artists and purveyors of popular Christian Marclay
culture, the videos of artist, musician and composer Christian Marclay use accumu- The Clock
lations of cultural data extracted from thousands of films (and television shows) as video installation
raw material for the diegesis. What sets Marclay’s installation The Clock (2010) postproduction
apart from other installations and films in this category is the interrelationship film in art
established between its postproduction aesthetic and its specific display conditions. cinematic experience
By matching on-screen time with actual time in a carefully designed exhibition
context, The Clock simultaneously reifies the psychosomatic transformation of the
moviegoer identified by Roland Barthes and dismantles the hermetic nature of the
cinematic apparatus. In so doing, Marclay mobilizes latent aspects of video instal-
lation to produce new phenomenological experiences and reorganize the relationship
between aesthetics and everyday life.
3
Margot Bouman
Postproduction
Like appropriation, collage and sampling, postproduction art conceives of
cultural products such as songs, movies, other works of art and design
as raw material to be repurposed and reformed. Unlike appropriation or
collage, postproduction artworks reference their cultural sources without
either subsuming or being reduced to them. Rather, postproduction works
are embedded in a broader culture of circulation and sharing known as
sampling, which also includes hip-hop, mashups, supercuts and memes,
each oscillating fluidly between modes of production and consumption.
Broadcast network television, Hollywood film, Brechtian analysis or the
latest trends in design are all, as Bourriaud characterizes it, ‘so many
storehouses filled with tools that should be used’, and form a ‘world of
cultural products and artworks’ (2010: 14, 17).
Typically, Marclay’s videos are composed using accumulations of
cultural data extracted from thousands of films and, to a lesser degree,
television shows. He shares this approach with both contemporary artists
such as Philippe Parreno, Douglas Gordon, Candice Brietz, Thomas
Hirschhorn, Mike Kelley, and Daniel Pflumm, and alternative dance and
hip-hop artists Dr Dre, Eminem, Coolio and Big Audio Dynamite, as well
4
On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
5
Margot Bouman
Christian Marclay, Telephones (1995), still from video (VHS format), 7:30 min. Photo: © Christian
Marclay, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery, New York.
6
On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
Marclay’s Telephones (1995), a single-channel video, utilizes a similar 1. For the latter, see Bruce
Nauman’s Mapping the
postproduction method to edit together phone conversations from a wide Studio I (Fat Chance,
array of movies. The work’s narrative consists of a conversation edited John Cage) (2001)
shown at Dia: Chelsea.
together from dozens of film fragments. Characters played by actors such
as Fred McMurray, Ray Milland, Tippi Hedren, Whoopie Goldberg, and
Charles Bronson dial a number. Phones whose designs tell a history of
twentieth-century taste cultures and technological changes repeatedly
ring across nightstands, desks, on top of precariously piled phonebooks,
and credenzas. Characters played by Meg Ryan, Shelley Duvall, Tom
Selleck, James Cagney, and Humphrey Bogart et al. pick up the hand set.
Salutations ranging from the cursory to the throatily seductive to the briskly
emphatic are made by actors such as Michael Keaton, Sean Connery, Cary
Grant, Geena Davis, and Louise Fletcher. The briefest and most formulaic
one-sided conversation is staged across dialogue fragments by, among
others, Joan Crawford, Tom Hanks, Katherine Hepburn, Warren Beatty,
and Jimmy Stewart. Finally, Dylan McDermott, Clint Eastwood, Danny de
Vito, and Barbara Stanwyck et al. bring the conversation, and the work,
to a close. Like Müller’s Home Stories, Marclay’s Telephones exposes the
prescribed nature of Hollywood film, while instantiating the artist in the
role of an implicated consumer and connoisseur of Hollywood rather than
a distanced or critical observer.
7
Margot Bouman
Christian Marclay, Video Quartet (2002), view of video installation at Paula Cooper Gallery, New York
(12 December 2002–1 February 2003). Photo: © Christian Marclay, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery,
New York.
2. For example, consider fixed seating as an advantage for video installation work, in that it prevents
Irit Batsry’s Set (2003)
for the former, and
the audience from becoming ‘totally immersed, incarnate viewers’ who
Christophe Girardet’s otherwise passively experience popular cinema while ‘cocooned in a dark-
No Forever (Golden) ened chamber’ (1998: 8). If ambient light conditions exist, this produces an
(1997) for the latter.
entirely different environment than if the visitor is plunged into darkness
3. Eija-Liisa Ahtila’s upon entering the gallery and has to stumble over the furnishings and people
Where is Where? (2008)
demonstrates the already present. Using a similar analogy, curator Chrissie Iles emphasizes that
former, and Omer Fast’s the ‘model [of the cinema as a cocoon] is broken apart by the folding of the
The Casting (2007) the
latter. dark space of cinema into the [modernist] white cube of the gallery’ (2001:
34). The metaphor of a black box nesting inside a white cube is potent and
frequently repeated. The scale, quantity and projection mode of the video
plays as important a role as the presence or absence of darkness. If multiple,
miniature monitors are scattered on the floor throughout the gallery, the
videos played thereon carry a different charge than if one video is projected
onto a monumental screen that covers the wall of a gallery, dwarfing the
audience.2 Multiple, larger-than-human projections are shown on screens
that limn the perimeter of the gallery in a semi-circle result in a different
experience of narrative flow than two videos projected onto either side of a
single screen in the centre of a gallery.3 Each produces a different physical
relationship between the work and the visitor, wherein the audience’s move-
ment helps determine the aesthetic impact of the video installation.
The way that space is organized in video and film installations can
alter the visitor’s perception of time. In some instances, artists expressly
make use of the interrelationship between screen and body, time and
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
space. Marclay does precisely this in his video installations. For example,
in Video Quartet (2002) he draws together primarily Hollywood audio-
visual film fragments in which actors and musicians sing, dance, perform
or otherwise generate noise across a four-channel video installation. The
work is contingent on both Marclay’s brilliant manipulation of the existing
stockpiles of cultural data, and their presentation in the exhibition space.
Marclay’s background as a composer and a musician as well as a visual
artist makes him sensitive to the possibilities opened up by the multiple
layers of time and space in video installations. Inside Video Quartet, the
viewer is invited to move through a darkened gallery in a manner that
is spatially organized using conventions similar to a musical composi-
tion such as sonic and visual escalations and de-escalations. Edmund
Husserl’s metaphor of the comet provides a useful tool to conceptualize
the temporality of the ‘now’ experience that is produced by the interaction
between the components of film, video installation and audience in Video
Quartet in particular, and video installation more generally. A phenom-
enologist working in the beginning of the twentieth century, Husserl was
not interested in empirically measurable or objective time, but rather in
how the consciousness of time was internally experienced. He conceived
of the consciousness of time as a succession of now points that first mate-
rialize in awareness and, and just as quickly exit into memory. Husserl
used music to elaborate on what he considered the special place of ‘just-
pastness’, or the time that immediately follows upon the present moment.
This sort of memory produced a consciousness not only of a succession of
notes that form a melody, but also of the very presentness of the present.
To hear a present note’s sound is to be conscious of its occurrence; but
its taking place is precisely its supercession of its predecessor (Husserl
1964: 33). When the gallery visitor moves around Marclay’s installation,
9
Margot Bouman
Christian Marclay, The Clock (2010), stills from single-channel video with sound, 24 hours, looped.
Photos: courtesy of the artist and Paula Cooper Gallery, New York.
10
On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
11
Margot Bouman
In The Clock, noon confirms the significance of the midday hour. The
montage leading up to noon includes a series of clips from escalating calam-
ities in the 1952 western High Noon, the 1995 western The Quick and the
Dead, and a brief nod to Run Lola Run. At noon’s high water mark, human
drama is overshadowed by a rapid series of clocks tolling the twelve bells,
culminating in a scene from The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939) in which
Quasimodo (Charles Laughton) lurches back and forth, screaming, atop a
pealing bell in the tower of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, while Esmeralda
(Maureen O’Hara) crouches, deafened, nearby. The ensuing seconds and
minutes that follow sink incrementally from this rolling climax into a quietly
repressive everyday. From The Hudsucker Proxy (1994), Sidney J. Mussberger
(played by Paul Newman) leans out through a freshly broken plate-glass
window from under a giant clock marking 12:01 p.m., and surveys the side-
walk below, following the curious suicide of his company’s CEO. From the
Twilight Zone episode ‘Time Enough at Last’ (1959), Henry Bernis (played by
Burgess Meredith) puts up a ‘Next Window Please’ sign at his teller’s station
in the bank in order to take his lunch break – alone, in the bank’s safe,
reading a book. Simultaneously a temporal marker and a cultural touch-
stone, this sequence bridges both the crisis and the banality of telling time.
Dragging
The now-time identified by Husserl becomes intensified and distilled into
aesthetic experience in video installation’s spatial and temporal configura-
tion. Although the aestheticization of now-time is a condition of all video
installations, this experience becomes subsequently attached to fragments
of Hollywood films in postproduction video installations. The legibility of
postproduction video installations in general, and Video Quartet in partic-
ular, depend in large part on memes, or ubiquitous units of cultural data
that circulate and re-circulate rapidly across multiple media platforms and
conversations. In visiting the installation, the viewer of Video Quartet acti-
vates a pre-existing exchange between meme and site that Chris Rojek
first identified as ‘dragging’.
Originally theorized with reference to tourism, Rojek defined drag-
ging as the cultural exchange that takes place between an artifact such
as a movie, a postcard, or a souvenir, and its representational origins in,
for example, Paris (the Eiffel Tower), China (the Great Wall), or London
(Big Ben). Rojek describes a feedback loop where the cultural significance
of sites are in part produced through representational culture, which in
turn ‘increase the accessibility of the sight in everyday life’ through their
ubiquitous representations (1997: 53). For example, in 1972 the duelling
banjos scene from Deliverance established the stereotypes that guide the
rest of the film wherein the urban visitors (residents of Atlanta) are typed
as dismissive and arrogant, and the rural residents (the mountain people
of the Appalachians) are typed as inbred, violent and intuitively gifted.
Subsequent to the film’s release, the duelling banjo scene became its
evocation, establishing a synecdochic relationship between the meme, or
the duelling banjos, and the original story in the film’s trailer and reviews.
Decades later, the duelling banjos scene has diffused into a symbolic
stand-in for the urban/rural divide that is still representative of parts of
12
On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
Similar to the dragging that takes place between the tourist site and its
souvenir, the location and its cinematic representation, postproduction
artwork’s meaning is determined both by the audience’s recognition of
the original, and its repurposing into a new site. In video installations, a
feedback loop is established between the installation site, the video and the
recycled film clip’s origins. In Video Quartet, a given visitor could experience
pleasure in remembering the origins of the fragment, as well as the way
it is manipulated and altered by its new context. The outcome of this type
of experience becomes one that involves both the pleasure of recognition
and that of misrecognition. The duelling banjos sequence from Deliverance
is aesthetically compelling in its own right, and can, in the mind of viewers/
listeners familiar with its history, simultaneously evoke a narrative of class
and regional prejudice and rich cultural heritage. Its repetition and even-
tual subsumption into the subsequent piano solos in Video Quartet acts to
defamiliarize the audience from the original fragment, and brings them back
to the particular structure and resonances of the overall video installation.
13
Margot Bouman
Christian Marclay, The Clock (2010), single-channel video with sound, 24 hours, looped, installation
view at White Cube Mason’s Yard, London (15 October–13 November 2010). Photo: Todd-White
Photography, © Christian Marclay, courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery, New York and White Cube,
London.
The Clock is after all not a film. A film has a defined beginning and a
defined end. Everyone goes [to the cinema] together – and together
they leave. The Clock neither has a beginning nor an end. It starts
when you enter the room and it stops when you leave.
(Ammann 2012)4
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
museum is given meticulous instructions as to when and how to permit 5. Translation courtesy of
Philip Schauss.
visitors to enter and exit, and the sofas are staged in such a manner to
facilitate this coming and going). A set of guidelines produced by White
Cube, Marclay’s London-based representative, demonstrates the degree
to which each element of the installation is tightly controlled and needs to
be customized for each gallery or museum space. At all points, the needs
of the audience are established as the driving force for the decisions, rein-
forcing the fluid exchange between consumption and production that was
present in the work’s initial conception and subsequent production. When
discussing the possibilities of light traps, the document asserts that ‘[t]he
artist prefers […] not to have a curtain across the entrances, so as to allow
much clearer free flowing of [the] public’ (White Cube 2010: 2). Regarding
the sound, the guidelines demonstrate a desire on the part of the artist
that the visitor control the length of their stay: ‘the sound [should] be
audible but not overwhelming. The intention is to make it comfortable
for the audience so as they can stay for some time’ (White Cube 2010: 6).
In an interview, Marclay indicated that the arrangement of the sofas was
intended to differentiate The Clock from a standard cinematic experience:
The guidelines also stipulated how the viewing space and furniture was
to be configured, regardless of where the work was shown (for example the
Paula Cooper Gallery and the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the
Venice Biennale, the Power Plant in Toronto) by allowing the free circula-
tion of the audience, the ability for individuals to stay for as long as they
wanted. When combined with its synchronization between reel time (or the
time shown on screen) and real time (or the time experienced by the viewer)
The Clock alters the pre-existing experience of watching movies, where the
subject is interpellated into the cinematic apparatus. Originally theorized
in the late 1960s and 1970s, the cinematic apparatus brings together two
French terms. Firstly, it refers to ‘l’appareil’, or the things and infrastruc-
ture required to shoot, process, edit and (especially relevant to Marclay’s
installation), project films. This requirement traditionally includes the
theatrical space, seating, a projector hidden in a booth above the audience
at the back of the theatre, sound, dimmed lighting, light passing through
the theatre from the projector to the screen, and finally the screen itself,
on which is projected moving images. Secondly, apparatus incorporates ‘le
dispositif’, which refers to the physiological, psychological, perceptual and
social elements necessary for the interplay between audience and movie.
Through interpellation, moviegoers ‘recognize’ themselves as
addressees, thus identifying with cinematic commands. In this way they are
imaginatively woven, or sutured, into the film joining, as Rosalind Krauss
observed, ‘the side of the projected actor’ (2011: 214–15). As with the other
components of The Clock’s cinematic apparatus, interpellation is central
to its experience. Yet, at the same time, Marclay troubles the cinematic
15
Margot Bouman
narrative by aligning its temporality to the real time of the viewer even as
they remain imbricated into the on-screen time. In The Clock, the synchro-
nization between reel time and real time produces an uncanny slippage
between on-screen timekeeping and everyday temporality, which like the
entry and exit of the visitor had only been haphazardly experienced prior
to this work. Responding to the similar synchronization of quotidian and
cinematic time in The Clock, critic Peter Bradshaw recalled the Czech writer
Petr Král who, when watching the 1916 silent movie serial Judex by Louis
Feuillade, suddenly realized that the time shown on screen was the same
as the time in which the audience was watching the film:
[O]n the screen there appears a clock set in the centre of the kind
of sumptuous salon that epoch, and Feuillade, alone had a taste for;
it shows 4:40 p.m. One of us automatically consults his watch: 4:40
to the second. For an instant our present, across the ruins of several
decades, has rejoined that of an afternoon in the 1910s.
(quoted in Bradshaw 2011)
When I first saw The Clock, it was late in the evening of its October 14
debut at White Cube in Mason’s Yard, London. I arrived after a
long dinner, walked the red carpet, descended the stairs, and sat
down on a sofa in the cavernous, makeshift theater: the reflexive
trappings of cinema. On the giant screen, restless, sinister bedroom
scenes prevailed. People were about to have sex or had just finished
having sex. There always seemed to be a bloodbath around the
corner. It was a few flicks in before it clicked that the clocks were
flashing the real time: 2:29… 2:30… 2:31 a.m. The realization was
thrilling but also indescribably melancholic. As much as it sucks
you in, you’re always mindful of how late it is, or what you might
be late for.
(2011: 200)
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
The Clock is a joyful art experience but a harsh life experience because
it doesn’t disguise what time is doing to you. At 2:45 p.m., when
Harold Lloyd hung off the face of that clock, I couldn’t access the
delight I have felt in the past watching that fabulous piece of fiction,
because if Harold was up on that screen it meant I had somehow
managed to come at the same time again, the early afternoon,
despite all my efforts to find a different moment, between childcare
and work. I looked around the walls of the gallery where all the
young people sat, hipsters, childless, with a sandwich in their bags
and the will to stay till three in the morning. I envied them; hated
them, even. They looked like they had all the time in the world.
In The Clock the fictional and the factual are not only not pressed and
stretched together, but the fictional keeps relentlessly folding the viewer
back into the factual by reminding her or him what time it is. At 2:46 p.m.
a glossy black four-door sedan pulls into a parking garage lit with sickly-
hued fluorescents. Its stone-faced driver checks his Luminor Panerai watch
as an alarm goes off. An actor playing a moustachioed operative announces
the time. When my cell phone reads 2:47 p.m., a clock embedded in the
smooth wooden panelling of a corporate boardroom marks off 2:47 p.m.
‘It is 2:47 p.m.’, an off-camera voice announces. With ‘It is 2:47 p.m.’, Kyle
MacLachlan as FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper begins his report, flanked
on one side by a heaping plate of garishly decorated donuts, and on the
other by evidence of a murder investigation. Patrick McGoohan, playing an
unnamed former British secret agent who is held in a prison tricked out as a
bucolic seaside resort inspects his watch for material evidence. At 3:15 p.m.,
around the time that I had stood up and exited the museum to look for a
subway train that would take me to my son’s school, the novelist Lynne
Tillman could have been coming to terms with the mortality of time:
17
Margot Bouman
3:16 p.m., 3:17 p.m. – I was watching time pass. My time. It was
passing, and I was watching it. What is this watching, what am I
watching for? I wouldn’t, couldn’t, wait for the end.
(2013: 21)
The Clock’s temporal alignment between reel time and real time does two
things. Like other postproduction video installations, it draws on and
intensifies the pre-existing exchange between representation and mate-
rial culture identified by Chris Rojek as ‘dragging’, by anchoring it into a
new site. Like other video installations, it also intensifies the ‘now-time’
and the manifestation of past-presentness identified by Husserl. More
than anything, however, it reorganizes the relationship between aesthetic
experience and everyday life. Some critics lamented this experience, as the
following rhetorical questions by Jennifer Alleyn demonstrate:
What escape remains if the fictional space is hunted down and then
regulated along the hour and minute hands of our lives? Where can
we take refuge when the screen, receptacle of our imaginary, inces-
santly reminds us of our mortality, revoking all poetic escape?
(2011: 66, author’s translation)
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
Back out on the more or less empty, more or less brightly lit side-
walk (it is invariably at night, and during the week, that he goes),
and heading uncertainly for some café or other, he walks in silence
(he doesn’t like discussing the film he’s just seen), a little dazed,
wrapped up in himself, feeling the cold – he’s sleepy, that’s what
he’s thinking, his body has become somewhat sopitive [soporific],
soft, limp, and he feels a little disjointed, even (for a moral organi-
zation, relief comes only from this quarter) irresponsible. In other
words, obviously, he’s coming out of hypnosis.
(1986 [1972]: 345, emphases in original)
Barthes is careful to describe his approach to and exit from the movie
theatre as purposefully haphazard. The places he visits, the topics he
chooses not to discuss are all designed to extend the experience of cinema
beyond the confines of the apparatus. In addition to the operations of iden-
tification and misidentification that go on between the on-screen image
and the audience, the dawning alertness of Barthes’s hypnotized spec-
tator hints at a Brechtian coming to awareness through a simultaneously
somatic and psychic operation that complicates the audience’s relation not
only between it, the on-screen image, and the place of the movie theatre,
but also the experiences leading up to and following the movie:
How to come unglued from the mirror? [M]any things can help us
to ‘come out of’ (imaginary and/or ideological) hypnosis […] but
there is another way of going to the movies (besides being armed by
the discourse of counter-ideology); by letting oneself be fascinated
twice over, by the image and by its surroundings – as if I had two
19
Margot Bouman
bodies at the same time: a narcissistic body which gazes, lost, into
the engulfing mirror, and a perverse body, ready to fetishize not the
image but precisely what exceeds it: the texture of the sound, the
hall, the darkness, the obscure mass of the other bodies, the rays of
light, entering the theatre, leaving the hall; in short, in order to dis-
tance, in order to ‘take off’, I complicate a ‘relation’ by a ‘situation’.
(Barthes 1986 [1972]: 348–49, emphasis in original)
What makes [The Clock] work is that you become part of this experi-
ence […]. You’re aware of when you started looking at it, and you
know how much time you’ve spent there – so you have to make
choices. You might have an appointment in half an hour – maybe
you can stay another ten minutes and be late, or forget about the
appointment and just stay. These choices make you hyper-aware,
and you become an actor in the film. People become totally aware
that their life is linked – their life is synched – with this thing.
(quoted in Romney 2011: 31)
As a result of these choices, and this reflexive awareness, the impact of The
Clock extends well beyond the confines of the gallery to alter the sensed
‘now’ of everyday life, thereby extending the work’s aesthetic trail. Before
or after viewing the work, multiple critics reported that for a brief period
the cinematic became joined to the individual’s lived reality, bringing
to it all of cinema’s potential verve, sparkle and beauty, as well as the
ideological charge of the narrative tropes that define it. This hyperaware-
ness stemming from the syncing of ‘diegetic time’ and ‘actual time’; or
‘temporal reality’ and ‘situational reality’ was nowhere more evident than
in the queues outside the installation.
The Clock proved to be enormously popular. Because audience members
were permitted to stay as long as they wanted, and only a limited number
of people were admitted at any time, queues formed. Like all queues,
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
Queue for The Clock outside the Paula Cooper Gallery, New York (2011). Photo: courtesy of Paula
Cooper Gallery, New York.
the one for The Clock formed a site of anticipation and memory. As Erika
Balsom observed, the queue for The Clock became a visual display of the
aspiration to experience the work inside:
However, like the artwork it preceded, this queue carried with it the
double charge of the aesthetic and the everyday. Frequently these
queues lasted for hours, acquiring the quality of accidental perform-
ances, or Kaprow-esque happenings. For the visitors who were queuing
up for a second or third visit to the installation, the sense of anticipation
overlaid their memories of a work that emphasized the temporal
intermix of the everyday and the aesthetic: this resulted in a reflexive
consciousness of both the act of waiting and its surroundings. The
second time I visited The Clock in February 2011 I waited for almost
three hours on a bitterly cold night in Chelsea, New York. The queue
stretched down the street and wrapped around the block. Across the
street, a swarm of clubbers queued up to get into a nightclub, providing
fodder for critique and commentary from our side. On that night, I was
preceded in the queue by a performance artist and an architect, both
second-wave feminists. Our awareness of why we were in the queue
prompted us to view our counterparts across the street as uninten-
tional theatre and to appreciate their performative qualities, rather than
21
Margot Bouman
I emerged into the New York twilight three hours after entering,
having walked past sleeping hipsters and snacking gallerinas toward
the fading sunlight. I took the bus back to my apartment, and saw a
row of clocks along Fifty-Seventh Street, each one set to a different
time zone. In my head, I could still hear the ticking.
22
On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
References
Alleyn, Jennifer (2011), ‘Christian Marclay, The Clock’, Esse: Arts + Opinion,
73, p. 66.
Ammann, René (2012), ‘Christian Marclay – Die Zeit läuft. 41
Minuten und 10 Sekunden mit The Clock’, Kunstbulletin, September,
h tt p ://w w w .k unstb ull eti n.ch/ ei n gan g_bes u ch er/d s p _frame.
cfm?token_session_id=130926205233S76&token_session_benutzer_
id=anonymous&a=&p=&i=&e=&abo=. Accessed 26 September 2013.
Balsom, Erika (2013), ‘Around The Clock: Museum and Market’, Framework,
54: 2 (Fall), pp. 177–91.
Barthes, Roland (1986 [1972]), ‘Leaving the Movie Theatre’ in The
Rustle of Language, trans. Richard Howard, New York: Hill and Wang,
pp. 345–49.
Baudry, Jean-Louis (1974–75), ‘Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematic
Apparatus’, trans. Alan Williams, Film Quarterly, 28: 2, pp. 39–47.
Bouman, Margot (2009), ‘A Broken Piece of an Absent Whole’: Experimental
Video and Its Spaces of Production and Reception, Ph.D. thesis, Rochester:
University of Rochester.
Bourriaud, Nicholas (2010), Postproduction: Culture as Screenplay: How
Art Reprograms the World, trans. Jeanine Herman, New York: Lukas &
Sternberg.
Bradshaw, Peter (2011), ‘Christian Marclay’s The Clock: A Masterpiece of
Our Times’, The Guardian, 7 April, http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/
filmblog/2011/apr/07/christian-marclay-the-clock. Accessed 4 November
2013.
Burns, Charlotte (2010), ‘Coming Soon? Movie Montage for L.A.’, The
Art Newspaper, 223, www.theartnewspaper.com/articles/Coming-soon-
Movie-montage-for-LA/23419. Accessed 4 November 2013.
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Margot Bouman
Suggested Citation
Bouman, Margot (2014), ‘On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space:
Postproduction, Video Installation and Christian Marclay’s The Clock’,
Journal of Curatorial Studies 3: 1, pp. 2–25, doi: 10.1386/jcs.3.1.2_1
Contributor Details
Margot Bouman is an assistant professor of visual culture at The New
School in New York City. Recent publications include an essay on the
use of the mise en abyme as a rhetorical device in visual culture, and the
paradox of anamorphosis in televisual public space. She is working on
a book-length history of the unintended consequences of avant-garde
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On Sampled Time and Intermedial Space
Margot Bouman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work in the format
it was submitted to Intellect Ltd.
25