To Name A Few
27 April – 22 June 2019, Tanya Leighton, Berlin
Preview: Friday, 26 April 7–9 pm
I am sitting here with this feeling, and it is a familiar feeling, and it is my heart.
I am needing to reassure myself that I am not writing this letter to you, that I am
just writing it, simply writing it, simply letting it wander out.
I feel sad. My heart, my chest, what fills my chest, something like the taste of
copper, like sucking on a penny, like licking a 9 volt battery and getting a little
shock. It’s here, a little shock.
It has never been so apparent, the workings of shame embedded in my being so
old and outside, yet all the same my own deep thing to tend to, untangle, air out
And I guess it’s true, now I am writing to you. I am writing to you from me and
also to myself.
But isn’t that a letter?
The linear scroll is scraping against the pavement.
In my delusions I am literally some kind of a hero and that is embarrassing.
What holds the reigns, I think of some force, nameless, shapeless within and
outside this bodily container. Sending signals into outer space and actually
I can tell you the joy of this spring day, the brightness of 4PM light, the spirits
that burst through at this time. It’s almost too much of a drunken feeling to
manage. It’s almost too much.
There is my heart again. You know, I haven’t been able to feel my heart in so
And now I pause, and just stare at my hands, still on the board.
And in this moment I decided this letter is no longer for you, because I know
that you don’t want it.
This letter is for my heart, and I can say anything to my heart.
Right now, I am saying to my heart, I am sorry. I am sorry that I wrapped you up in cotton batting and put you away all tampered down and quiet. I am sorry that I hid you from myself, that I turned away from you while we were sleeping, and on purpose, many times.
I am sorry that I turned away from you, my heart. My beautiful, my tender, my sensitive, my loving, my strong, strong heart. And I am so sorry that I put you to rest so often as to no longer feel anything between my ribs and the sky.
To Name a Few
Tanya Leighton, Berlin
Gallery Weekend 2019
26 April – 22 June 2019
David Diao, 2018
Delmonico books — Prestel
With contributions from Philip Tinari, Michael Corris, Pi Li, Sarah K. Rich, Felicia Chen, Kerry Doran
Recipient of the 2019 Arnaldo Pomodoro Sculpture Prize
Solo exhibition opens in Fall 2019
Galleria d'Arte Moderna, Milan
Phaidon Contemporary Artist Series
Text by Julia Bryan-Wilson, Jeannine Tang, and Lanka Tattersall
...and other such stories
Chicago Architecture Biennial
Chicago Cultural Center
19 September 2019 – 5 January 2020
Fondazione Morra Greco, Naples
Tanya Leighton is delighted to announce that the Museum of Modern Art, New York has acquired Marianne Wex's Let's Take Back Our Space: 'Female' and 'Male' Body Language as a Result of Patriarchal Structures, 1977
Tanya Leighton Gallery, Berlin, established in 2008, is dedicated to developing a cross-disciplinary, trans-generational gallery programme with off-site projects, in collaboration with artists, filmmakers, critics, art historians, and curators. Its international exhibition programme reflects a variety of opinions and practices as well as Leighton’s associations with American and British experimental cinema, artist’s film and video, performance, minimal and conceptual art.
Director: Simon Gowing
Director: Patrick Armstrong
Project Manager: Marie Egger
Gallery Manager: Jessica Aimufua
Registrar: Henry Babbage
Finance Manager: Stefan Schuster
Tanya Leighton GmbH
Kurfürstenstraße 156 & 24/25
Open Tuesday – Saturday
11am – 6pm and by appointment
James Krone, Alexi Kukuljevic, Amy Sillman
The Collapse of the Mind's Ordering System Leads to Some Rather Wanton Developments
15 March – 16 April 2016, Tanya Leighton, Berlin
To declare nothing matters, existence is absurd, life is a tawdry joke has an old-fashioned ring to it. Another Manhattan please. The untimeliness of such propositions is out of joint with the fashionable cynicism of a time that prefers its nihilism neatly packaged, its concepts ready-to-go and its formalism machine hewn. Nevertheless there is always room for the frayed-edge, a word gently slurred and an artistic countenance that assumes the meaninglessness of all endeavors with the stone-faced mastery of a Buster Keaton.
These works, like all works after all, declare their preferences and they prefer their form dissolute. All the better to align the imagination with those rare moments when the mind’s craving for order is given a reprieve. Form, yes, but not formality. That is to say, form that remains imperiled, irresolute, negative. Negativism need not be bound to a willful negation (the perennial thumb in the eye). There are other ways of declaring one's suspicion concerning the mind’s signifying habits. To dissipate, to impoverish: actions that deform a given. To work with one’s mud, the psychic sink of the idea. Ideas need not simply prop the work up as the palm of the hand supports the thinking man’s chin. The idea can enter into the work’s tissue, its meat and we’ve worked hard to think with the full weight of the eye-ball — that bit of flesh that punctuates consciousness’ relation to the visual field.
Indifferent to the directives of the index finger and the imperium it prescribes, these works evidence the collapse of cognition without suffering therefrom. Eloquently awkward, the works seem to say: signification is not the last word on the visible.