To the Editor:

In their essay on a note by Marcel Duchamp about the fourth dimension (Natural History, 12/99-1/00), Stephen Jay Gould and Rhonda Roland Shearer emphasize the fact that no other previous Duchamp scholar has ever noticed that the text of this particular note relates to the image of three boats in a landscape that appears on its verso. Although they go on to explain that there are various reasons for why this observation had not been made before — without explanation — they specifically single out my writings as an example of a Duchamp scholar who missed this very point.

This is a perfect example of biased and prejudicial scholarship. Since it was employed by a Darwinian like Gould, it is difficult to resist comparing his actions to that of natural selection, one that, in this case, functions within the ongoing evolution of his and his wife’s indomitable quest to find hidden meanings in the work of Marcel Duchamp. If these writers were really going to be fair in assessing my powers of observation, after having cited my description of this note, they would have gone on to quote the very next sentence of my writings: “Although it has been assumed that these paper fragments were selected arbitrarily and that they bear no relationship to the subject of the notes themselves, at least one note referring to the ‘legs of the [Chocolate] Grinder’ appears, appropriately, on the verso of a torn fragment of candy wrapping advertising the town of ‘Hershey, PA.'” (The Mary and William Sisler Collection, Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1984, p. 143). In the note discussed by Gould and Shearer, I did not notice a relationship between the subject of the fourth dimension and the image appearing on its verso for one very specific reason: I am not wholly convinced that there is one (not when I wrote about these notes over fifteen years ago, nor even now after having read their elaborate argument).

First of all, these authors claim that “Duchamp’s object is not, in fact, a commercially produced postcard but an original painting, almost surely by Duchamp himself.” This is a perfectly reckless assertion, particularly since it is made without a single shred of supporting evidence. Stylistically, the image bears no relationship whatsoever to any other work by Duchamp from this period, unless, of course, Duchamp feigned an artistic style totally foreign to his own artistic sensitivities (even if this were the case, then we are presented with no reasonable explanation for why Duchamp would have employed such a strategy). The authors then point out that on the verso of this image, “a vertical line in the middle and four horizontal lines to the right” were “inked in by hand” to “mimic the address guides of a normal postcard.” These lines would prove critical, for according to the authors, they provide a clue that the image on the other side must be rotated in order to be understood for its fourth dimensional message. But even here, how can we be sure that Duchamp drew these lines? I — for one — doubt very much that he did.

I share the belief that Duchamp’s note was written on a “pseudo-postcard,” that is to say, a watercolor executed on a relatively thick piece of drawing paper and cut to resemble the size and format of an ordinary, commercially-produced postcard. But it is hardly necessary to prove that Duchamp himself physically rendered this image; simulated, one-of-a-kind postcards of this type can still be purchased on the streets of Montmartre to this very day, affording tourists the option of sending their correspondents relatively inexpensive original works of art. In order to make the function of their product clear, it is usually the artist who draws the address lines on the verso of the image as well as.

It is, of course, entirely possible that Duchamp might have noticed a casual resemblance between the three rather poorly-executed boats on the facing side of this card and an overhead view of deckchairs, causing him to muse on the subject of the fourth dimension (just as I had earlier noticed that an advertisement for Hershey’s Chocolate inspired Duchamp to write about the leg of the Chocolate Grinder). But I do not — for a moment — believe that he drew this image to serve as an illustration of his ideas. The boats on this card bear a resemblance to one another not because their proportionate sizes were meant to illustrate a concept of the fourth dimension, but simply because after having drawn literally hundreds of similar boats, for the sake of convenience and expediency, the Montmartre artist repeated the same pattern that — by then — had been engrained in his visual memory.

Lastly, I find it preposterous that in such a highly respected publication devoted to the sciences, the authors are allowed to refer to their relatively-minor observation as a “discovery.” Indeed, the following claim is highlighted in the text: “Shearer discovered the key as we indulged in our favorite pastime: playing mental chess with Duchampian puzzles.” If these authors see only puzzles in Duchamp, then I am afraid they shall remain forever blinded to his most important message. In my opinion, they would be better guided by following the advice contained in one of his most memorable statements: “There is no solution because there is no problem.”

Francis M. Naumann

Dear Drs. Gould and Shearer,

Thank you for your interesting article in the December issue of Natural History. It led me to an alternative interpretation of his boat/deckchair illusion using the notion of a cross-section, which is implicit in the passage from Flatland that you quoted.

Imagine three spheres in space. One can obtain a 2-dimensional representation of them by taking a cross-section, that is, slicing through them with a plane. The result would be a collection of circles in the plane. Depending on which plane one chooses, the relative sizes of the circles will be different; as one moves the plane, they will grow and shrink in the way Abbot describes.

Now imagine three objects in 4-space (three 4-spheres, for example). One can obtain 3-dimensional representations by slicing them with a 3-dimensional space (a “hyperplane”) and, again, depending on which hyperplane one chooses the objects will have different sizes. If the objects are 4-spheres, then the 3-dimensional hyperplane slice will be a collection of ordinary 3-dimensional spheres of different sizes. And again, as one moves the hyperplane around the spheres will grow and shrink. Thus, rotating Duchamp’s postcard achieves the optical illusion of this growing and shrinking process by causing one to reassess the sizes of the objects. Duchamp invites one to replicate the growing and shrinking process involved in moving the hyperplane around by holding the card vertically and “considering the optical illusion produced by the difference in their dimensions.”

This interpretation may capture more precisely the mathematical intent of his words.

Sincerely,

Bill McCallum
Department of Mathematics
University of Arizona (Tucson)

Dear Dr. Gould;

When I saw the headline of the article you and your wife wrote in the December-JanuaryNatural History, as a chemist, one thought came to my mind: cyclohexane. As I read the article, I realized that the connection may be germane.

When learning organic chemistry, the structures initially are written as two-dimensional. Only later are three-dimensional representations introduced. Hence, methane (CH4) initially is presented as a Greek cross with carbon in the middle and the four hydrogens attached to it as the directions of the compass, with angles of 90º. Later, one learns the actual three-dimensional structure is different. Mutual repulsion keeps the hydrogens as far away from each other as possible, giving a tetrahedral structure.

Similarly, initially, cyclohexane is written on the board or paper as a perfect hexane. When the third dimension is introduced, we learn that the structure is puckered, with two more-or-less stable confirmations, called the boat and the chair.

The chair structure is somewhat more stable in cyclohexane and therefore is the predominant one existing in nature in the pure compound. But the substitution of other groups for some of the hydrogens may make a difference in which structure is preferred.

I find it interesting that Duchamp picked these two objects, boat and chair, to represent his thoughts on three- and four-dimensional world, while we chemists associate them with the difference between two- and three-dimensional representations. Is it a coincidence?

Sincerely yours,

Robert Ausubel
New York, NY

click to enlarge

Illustration 1
Duchamp’s Studio,
33 West 67 Street,
New York, 1917-18
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

click to enlarge

Illustration 2
Marcel Duchamp,
Unhappy Readymade, 1919
© 2000 Succession Marcel Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

The Duchamp Bicycle Wheel(1913), and Stool was only referred to by Duchamp but was never seen because Duchamp claimed that it was “lost” and undocumented by any photographs.

The 1941 print of his Bicycle Wheel in the Boite en Valise (the first time that we see a visual representation relevant to, but not actually depicting, his 1913 original) was chosen by Duchamp from a series of at least five studio photographs (circa 1916-17) taken of the2^nd version, made in his New York studio. The photograph that Duchamp selected to use for creating his 1941 Boite pochoir print appears to be retouched. (We are in the process of subjecting this image to forensic analysis for further determination of the specific alterations.) Based upon the depicted bicycle wheel and stool shapes, I argue that the movement of the wheel would hardly be relaxing (as in watching a fireplace) but would, in fact, continually wobble out a warning of an eventual crash and fall of the stool. (See my article “Why is the Bicycle Wheel Shaking?”)

click to enlarge

Illustration 3
Marcel Duchamp,
Rrose Sélavy by Man
Ray, 1921
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

Illustration 4
Marcel Duchamp,Cover for
“Le Surréalisme, même,” Winter
1956, 1956
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

In addition to the distorted shape of the bicycle wheel and stool in the source photograph for Duchamp’s 1941 Boite en Valise print (see Illustration 1), the stool rungs and legs are extremely blurred in ways that contrast with the other, more sharply-focused, surface. One is led to ask — are the legs and rungs askew due to photographic or physical alterations? Duchamp’s use of photographic alterations would not be surprising. Scholars readily acknowledge that Duchamp, throughout his career, retouched photographs. Examples include Unhappy Readymade (1919) (where Duchamp adds the appearance of a printed geometric axiom to a photograph of book pages whose typeface had been washed away by rain), the famed Rrose Selavy portraits (1921) by Man Ray (where Duchamp enhances Rrose’s hands), and the cover of Surrealism, Même (1956) (where Duchamp retouches a photograph of his concave fig leaf sculpture to enhance the illusion of convexity already, in part, created by special effects lighting). (See illustrations 2, 3, 4)

click to enlarge

Illustration 5
Marcel Duchamp,
Photo of Duchamp riding
on the Bicycle, 1902
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

Illustration 6
Marcel Duchamp,
To Have the Apprentice
in the Sun, from the
Box of 1914, 1914
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

Moreover, Duchamp knew that the common bicycle design for front wheels incorporated a curved fork and yet in his 1916-17 2^nd version he uses a straight fork! Note here a boyhood photo of Duchamp riding his bicycle in 1902 and his drawing from the 1914 Box — both depicting the curved forks that were conventionally used even when Duchamp was a child (see Illustrations 5 & 6). One must not forget that enthusiasm for new technologies, gadgets and inventions was at its zenith in the early 20th century. Since straight forks were only briefly in used in modern “safety bicycle” design (and therefore quickly became obsolete by the late 1880’s), Duchamp appears to be making a conscious point when he selects, in 1916-17, an obsolete design for a “readymade” during an era that embraced hi-tech mass production. Even in 1916-17, most junked bicycle fork parts readily found (using modern spoked wheel and metal rim) would be curved in shape and any straight fork design infrequently found as visual oddity appearing retrograde and old-fashioned (and most often seen with a primitive wheel and wood spokes).

Dear Tout-Fait,

This question is in my mind and it drives me crazy…

Is the Bicycle Wheel a readymade?

One of my first contacts with the work of Marcel Duchamp was an interview he gave (in French) in the late 60s. He explained very well what the idea behind a readymade is. He also explained the process that led to the Bicycle Wheel.

I remember that he said he used to live in a small apartment in Paris and he wanted to have a fire to warm the place, and also because it would have been nice to have a fire in this small apartment. As he didn’t have any “cheminee de coin,” he couldn’t have any fire. He came up with the Bicycle Wheel on the “tabouret” because moving the wheel reminded him of the movement and sound of a fire. Knowing that, I was a bit confused, as that could mean that the Bicycle Wheel‘s purpose is to “imitate” a fire.

When Miro takes two plates, a rock and a rack and places them together so that they look like a strange personnage, no one says it is a readymade. And I agree. Its purpose is to imitate or give birth to a poetic living form. It is on purpose that this living form looks human in some way (to make it easier for us to understand, maybe).

Anyway, I don’t see so many differences between Miro and his plates and rocks, and Marcel Duchamp and his Bicycle Wheel (I am only talking about the Bicycle Wheel, I understand why the Bottlerack, for example, is a readymade).

I know you might be wondering why I am sending this question to Tout-Fait. Well, you are actually the only person I know who might be able to correct me, and also, it is an opportunity to thank you for the journal. I was very happy to read all of the articles, and really stoned by the news concerning the copies and the 3 Standard Stoppages (!!).

Thanks for the help, and I can’t wait to read the second edition of Tout-Fait.

Dear Rhonda,

Who said, he hated repetition? Exactly — that was the crucial point in staring at Marcel Duchamp’s work for almost one century. The solution does not lie in an agreement of the scholars, but in the deconstruction of this vain palace of interpretations. You are doing the main job. Just looking at the phenomena and describing the context — the context not of the original work, but of our own knowledge. It does not matter what his intentions were, but what we can understand. We all know that Marcel Duchamp will be of importance still in the next decades, much more than all the Picassos. But to realize this, someone had to come and tell us: He did not do the thing as he was declaring and explaining to them. We have to think on our own (Oh, gosh) — that’s the difficult thing. For this reason you are discovering seemingly simple things, such as the “Green Box” surprises and the 3 Stoppages (which really tell us “Stop the pages of art history”). Is it all so obvious, but not for blind men. Our beloved Marcel Duchamp is falling apart — that makes him hateable, but interesting again and again.

Regards,

Prof. Dr. Thomas Zaunschirm
Department of Art History, Essen University, Germany

p.s.- Many congratulations for your online-magazine. One could not wish for more.

Some Duchamp-related postcards from Thomas Zaunschirm:

• Figure 1
• Figure 2
• Figure 3

• Figure 4
• Figure 5
• Figure 6

click to enlarge

Illustration 1
Marcel Duchamp,
signed version of
Draft Pistons, 1914
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.
Illustration 2
Marcel Duchamp,
unsigned version of
Draft Pistons, 1914
© 2000 Succession Marcel
Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.

Rhonda Roland Shearer responds:

Your interesting and correct observation of the difference between the Draft Pistons in the Large Glass and his two photographs leads to other evidence of Marcel’s mischievous methods! Duchamp claims to have taken three photographs of fabric blown by air currents through a window (of the three photographs only two remain, as Duchamp claims to have lost the third).(See Illustration #1 and #2.) Richard Hamilton writes that the size of the actual cloth that Duchamp used was 1 meter square. ⁽¹⁾By opaque projector,

click to enlarge

Illustration 3
Enlarged drawing of
the Draft Piston

I enlarged the Draft Piston photographs to 1 meter square. The impossibility of this large 1 meter square size quickly became apparent, as the dots on the lace would then be more than 1 inch in diameter. (See Illustration #3.)Sewn dots depicted in Illustration #4occurring in antique lace are only, approximately, the size of a pencil eraser. Moreover, antique lace of similar type, when scaled to match the lace depicted in Duchamp’s photos, would measure approximately 3¾ x 4¾ inches. Therefore, the lace was not 1 meter square and could not have been in a window curtain (as scholars have assumed). Illustrations #5A, B and Ccompare old lace to one Draft Piston photo scaled to match the size and ratio of actual antique lace. #4C shows an approximation to the actual size of lace that Duchamp used for creating his Draft Piston photography. By further logic, one must also challenge whether the open “window” in the Draft Piston photograph is an actual window or the opening of a miniature box with the 3¾ x 4¾ inch lace hanging in front.

click to enlarge

Illustration 4
Phototgraph showing a
woman veiled in antique lace

As an additional point of interest, I discovered that if one puts the two Draft Piston images side by side into a stereoviewer, an impressive 3-D stereo effect is generated. In light of Duchamp’s interest and his history in creating many original stereoworks, (including stereo-pair images to be seen in stereoviewers included is his 1941 Boîte en Valise miniature museum of his life’s work), the two Draft Pistons photos, working as a stereo pair, is not likely to be accidental. Perhaps the resulting stereo image that one sees from the fusion of the two Draft Piston photos in a stereoviewer is the third Draft Piston image that Duchamp said he “lost” and has now been refound!

• Illustration 5A
• Illustration 5B
• Illustration 5C

• Marcel Duchamp, unsigned
  version of Draft Piston
  s, 1914 © 2000 Succession
  Marcel Duchamp ARS, N.Y./ADAGP, Paris.
• An old lace, shown
  here in red (originally in black)
  to better illustrate the contrast
• Comparison by overlaying
  the old lace with the
  lace in the Draft Pistons

Notes

1. In a telephone conversation of March 10, 1999 between Thomas Girst / Art Science Research Laboratory, Inc. and Richard Hamilton, Mr. Hamilton stated that he only “made the assumption” that the “Draft Pistons” were fabricated by hanging a one-meter-square Net (net curtain or veiling) above a radiator (text in italics quoted from: Richard Hamilton. Collected Words. London: Thames & Hudson, 1982. p. 229). In addition, he mentioned that he “definitely did not get this information from Duchamp” and that he derived his guess regarding the size from the length of the “Standard Stoppages” and by looking at the 1914 photograph.

Hello Tout-Fait,

What a find! I’m an “anartist” and post-grad art history and theory student at the University of Essex in the UK (Dawn Ades and Margaret Iversen are my tutors).

This first issue was tremendous. More please!

Apropos of Rhonda and Stephen’s article on the “Standard Stoppages,” I’m probably not the only Duchampian to notice, also, that the two extant photographs of gauze (hanging over a radiator/in front of a window) bear little relation to the morphology of the “draft pistons” in the Milky Way of the Large Glass. Is this yet another case of Marcel’s methodological mischievousness?

Glenn Harvey B.A.(Hons) M.A.
Dept. of Art History and Theory
University of Essex, UK

William Anastasi responds:

I was pleased to learn that Katherine Dreier has been the subject of a doctoral dissertation. If there is evidence showing that the Tomkins and Marquis accounts of her relationship with Duchamp are off base, adjustments would be welcome. Dr. Angeline states that “correspondence between Dreier and Duchamp does reveal that the Large Glass was indeed accidentally broken, unbeknownst to both Duchamp and Dreier…” This is the explanation given by Duchamp to J.J. Sweeney and Pierre Cabanne. But Duchamp’s marvelous all-weather disclaimers proclaim that Each word I tell you is stupid and false and All in all I’m a pseudo, that’s my characteristic. He was begging posterity to question everything about him, and particularly his statements. I have not succeeded in reaching Dr. Angeline to learn of his sources, but if he is citing letters from the artist, these disclaimers may apply. In any case, (and especially in view of these famous remarks) letters cannot reveal that the Large Glass was accidentally broken, they can only say so.

Marcel Duchamp was clearly creating his own myth. A telling attestation of this can be found in the opening paragraph of William A. Camfield’s Marcel Duchamp: Fountain(Houston: The Menil Collection, 1989). Before embarking on a 180-page dissertation about this enormously influential work from 1917, Mr. Camfield cautions, “We do not even know with absolute certainty that Duchamp was the artist — he himself once attributed it to a female friend…” For all we can tell, Duchamp may have been in collaboration with female friends even at this early date.

William Anastasi
New York, NY