DEC. 17, 1979
ON KAWARA, 1979
DEC.17.1979. That's it. That's the painting. On Kawara had one rule for this series, which he began on January 4, 1966: finish the painting before midnight, or destroy it. Not set it aside. Not come back tomorrow. Destroy it. The date had to be earned on the day it names, or it ceased to exist. He painted this one, put it in a cardboard box, and lined the box with that day's newspaper. Which is such a precise move. He didn't put the news on the painting. He put it underneath. History sitting just below the surface. Not buried. Just held separately. He gave almost no interviews. Refused public photography for decades. And yet for nearly half a century, he left a daily record of his own existence — date by date, city by city. One of the most private artists of the twentieth century made one of the most meticulous autobiographies in the history of art. Not minimalism. Documentation. There's a difference. He also sent telegrams to friends. Just two words: I AM STILL ALIVE. That was the whole message. The bar was low. He cleared it. Some days, that is the full achievement. And you do not need to decorate it. The last date painting was made in 2013. Then the series stops. No finale. No curtain speech. You go looking for what comes after DEC.17.1979, after all of them, really, and eventually you run out of paintings. The silence on the other side of the last one is part of the work. What did you do on December 17, 1979? Neither do I. He painted this.