1. Institutional Concealment and Strategic Disclosure
In 1946 and 1947, Donald Judd served in the United States Army in Korea, during the occupation of the north by Soviet troops and the south by the US. In this time between Japan’s surrender and withdrawal from the Korean peninsula and before the Korean War broke out in 1950, Judd helped build military infrastructure for the US Army Corps of Engineers. When I came across this detail in a timeline of Judd’s life, I was immediately curious how his experiences working alongside Korean architects and engineers influenced his artistic sensibilities, but also how it has remained curiously understated in the art-historical narrative of Judd’s work.
When I expressed interest in researching any records related to Judd’s time in the Army, an archivist at the Judd Foundation made clear that those materials were in a closed portion of the archives due to their “sensitive and personal nature.” Though initially disappointing, such concealment resonates with a broader amnesia surrounding America’s “Forgotten War” in Korea, where selective memory serves the construction of new identities by obscuring the historical conditions and material realities that made them possible. Such patterns of forgetting continue to shape our cultural and physical landscape today.
In a chronology of Judd’s life on the Judd Foundation website, there is a single brief mention of how his “practical experience, coupled with the opportunity to study local building design” in Korea would spark Judd’s lifelong interest in architecture.1 This seemingly innocuous admission takes on greater significance when considered alongside the marketing materials for Judd’s 2023 exhibition at Austrian gallery Thaddeus Ropac’s space in Seoul, which coincided with the Frieze Art Fair’s expansion into the burgeoning Korean art market. The exhibition constructs a cultural proximity to render Judd relevant to the Korean market, yet it’s also the first significant public exploration of Korean influence on Judd’s artistic development.
In a series of online articles and interviews promoting the exhibition, an interesting tension emerges in how the Judd Foundation navigates the relationship with Korean aesthetics in Judd’s work. In an article on Thaddaeus Ropac’s website, Donald Judd’s son Flavin Judd, artistic director of the Judd Foundation, makes bold claims about Korea’s influence: “It was the first place Don ever discovered outside the US … It’s pretty radical for your first trip ever, and he wasn’t even an artist when he went to Korea. But it informs his aesthetic in a way that other countries don’t.”2 Flavin continues that both Los Angeles County Museum of Art director Michael Govan and he “think the probability of seeing the palaces in Seoul, with their high walls and very regulated placement of buildings within the walls is not dissimilar … to the Block in Marfa,” but they also hedge the Korean influence: “I’m not saying there’s a direct connection.”
This awkward dance of acknowledgment and disavowal continues throughout the exhibition’s catalogue, beginning with writing from Korean curator Jinsang Yoo, who prefaces our understanding of Judd’s work with a 1968 statement from Judd: “A shape, a color, a surface is something itself. It shouldn’t be concealed as part of a fairly different whole. The shapes and materials shouldn’t be altered by their context.”3 Shortly following this quote comes a section written by Govan, who likens his personal experience of visiting Judd’s Marfa compound to visiting Jongmyo Shrine in Seoul, which houses the spirit tablets of the former Joseon-era kings and queens. Govan highlights Judd’s interest in the Korean concept of pungsu (풍수), an art of geomancy similar to feng shui, comparing Judd’s work to the sacred Korean site while emphasizing some key concepts of Korean philosophy:
Stepping inside the courtyard of Seoul’s Jongmyo Shrine for the first time, I was overwhelmed by space—not its abundance, but its particular presence, dimension, proportions, how it was ordered, oriented, divided, and situated in relation to architectural structures—and the experience of the surrounding environment and landscape. Only in Marfa Texas among Judd’s installations had I experienced such a powerful and specific experience of space. I imagined Judd may have been inspired by this 17th-century landmark.4
Several pages later Govan refers to Judd’s 1993 essay “Some Aspects of Color in General and Red and Black in Particular,” in which Judd explicitly identifies “an astrology of place, called ‘pungsu’ in Korean” as something close to the missing theory of space in architecture he desired.5 A philosophy that values how “emptiness” can allow a space to become charged and permeable to surrounding energies is an early inspiration that can be found throughout what was produced over Judd’s lifetime.
In a separate interview promoting the same exhibition, Flavin reveals that Judd had specifically wanted buildings at Las Casas, his ranch eighty miles outside Marfa, to have “black Korean tiled roofs.”6 These distinctive black glazed ceramic tiles (Giwa) are a defining feature of Korean palace and temple architecture, often imprinted with geomantic and mythological symbolisms, functioning both practically and symbolically within pungsu principles as mediators between structures and heavenly energies.
The Foundation highlighting this specific architectural aspiration while promoting Judd’s work to Korean audiences suggests a complex negotiation: acknowledging influence for market appeal while simultaneously maintaining that Judd’s work transcends cultural context. The tension lies in how Judd studied and absorbed Korean philosophical building principles—deeply rooted in historical, spiritual, and cultural significance—into a supposedly neutral formal vocabulary while removing any sense of cultural origin. This obfuscation becomes further complicated by the circumstances of Judd’s exposure to these concepts during his US military service, which directly involved him in redesigning Korean infrastructure in service to American military control. Judd’s practice and legacy depend upon multiple layers of such erasures, from the geopolitical histories to the industrial systems that enabled his work. And yet, certain material and conceptual traces of what haunts Judd’s legacy have been revealed by evolving economic and geopolitical shifts in the world.
2. Mnemonic Shrapnel: The Emergence of Violence in Aesthetic Neutrality
Surfacing specifically for a Korean market while military records remain sealed, Korea’s influence on Judd’s work operates through a temporal logic I term “mnemonic shrapnel.” This concept offers a materialist approach to understanding how fragments of historical violence can remain embedded within aesthetic forms, occasionally piercing the surface of strategic forgetting when market conditions or critical interventions disturb their containment. Like the medical phenomenon where metal fragments can remain inert in the body’s soft tissue for decades before emerging and producing inflammatory responses, seemingly neutralized histories can suddenly be activated through combinations of slow degradation, physical disturbance, and delayed material reactions.7
What distinguishes mnemonic shrapnel from conventional understandings of historical influence is its dialectical temporality. Nonlinear historical connections emerge through Benjaminian constellations where “what has been comes together in a flash with the now.”8 Past and present converge and material histories embedded in objects, places, and ideas suddenly become visible when we recognize that things carry within them the social relations, labor conditions, and power structures of their production. These moments rupture aesthetic continuity, revealing how the facade of progress and the illusion of pure “neutral” form remain haunted by the very histories they claim to transcend.
The calculated revelation of Korean influence on Judd’s work specifically for Korean audiences exemplifies how market imperatives can trigger the release of historical fragments previously held in suspension. This creates a paradox where—not through any commitment to historical truth—capital’s relentless pursuit of new markets and cultural commodification inadvertently disrupts its own mechanisms of historical erasure, allowing dormant traces of imperial violence to resurface and destabilize the very aesthetic boundaries constructed to contain them. What appears as strategic disclosure for commercial gain becomes an unintended breach in the architecture of forgetting, where market logic undermines the careful cultivation of amnesia that Judd’s “neutral” purity of form requires to maintain its freedom from contextual baggage.
3. Forgotten Histories and Constructed Remembrance
The best way to describe southern Korea is to state that they are in a powder keg ready to explode upon application of a spark … Koreans have not understood why they were not given complete independence and allowed to establish completely their own government within two to three days of the arrival of American troops.
—US General John Reed Hodge in a telegram to General MacArthur, September 13, 1945
The 1946–47 period Judd spent in Korea coincides with a common historical misconception that the Korean War began in 1950. By that time, the US had already established the national divide (the 38th parallel) with an ideological war marked by significant bloodshed. Immediately after Japan’s surrender in 1945 and until 1948, the US eagerly collaborated with Japanese officials to inherit colonial rule over Korea while brutally suppressing Korean independence movements across the country.9 Douglas MacArthur enforced military rule, declaring English (and no longer Japanese) as Korea’s language. As discoveries of war crimes, chemical weapons, vile human and biological experiments, and mass killings emerged in both Germany and Japan, atrocities committed by Japan were largely concealed and absolved in exchange for the discrete transfer of knowledge and personnel into American positions.10 Amid this violence, elaborate psychological warfare campaigns sought to rapidly transform public perception to facilitate new narratives of national identity.11
Between 1946 and 1948, Koreans organized by the hundreds of thousands to protest US military involvement while grassroots independence movements widely established themselves across the country. While occupation forces in the north and south each had their own imperial interests, their treatment of citizens varied dramatically. Conditions in the south became unbearable due to starvation and disease while right-wing groups and government officials were caught hoarding and siphoning Korean rice harvests into Japan, as was done under Japanese colonial rule. These incidents further pressurized Korea’s political climate, leading ultimately to the autumn uprising of 1946, which grew out of the largest workers’ strike in Korean history with nearly a million workers protesting the new American military government. The incident began as a general strike and peaceful protest, then progressed into an armed revolt, which resulted in the loss of hundreds of civilian lives, thousands wounded, and thousands more arrested under the support and supervision of the US military.12
Another notable quelling occurred on April 3, 1948, known as the “Jeju 4.3 Incident” or the “Jeju Massacre.” Shortly following a staged democratic election held by the US military, Syngman Rhee became South Korea’s first president. Less than a month later, Rhee ordered a scorched-earth policy to be unleashed on his own people who were protesting US military involvement in Korea. The protests erupted when, during a celebration on the anniversary of Korea’s liberation from Japan, a police horse kicked a child and an officer opened fire on enraged civilians, killing six. The Korean military went on to decimate entire villages, killing upwards of thirty thousand people under the supervision of the US military and using US-made aircraft and munitions.13
Between 1945 and 1950, at the hands of the South Korean government and US military, upwards of a hundred thousand Koreans were killed, tens of thousands imprisoned, and entire communities subjected to blockades of food, water, and transportation in efforts to suppress the struggle for Korean independence and unification.14 Amid escalating tensions with the Soviet-backed North, American imperial interests and capitalist ideology systematically reframed these broad-based, self-governing, and unionizing movements as communist, engineering ideological cover for mass violence against civilians and rendering invisible the democratic values that animated Korean resistance movements.
News of the violence in Korea rarely reached the American public. Without being recognized as a war, and with records of atrocities concealed and manipulated, a manufactured forgetting persists to this day. While the South Korean government has, in recent years, acknowledged a handful of these civilian massacres, the United States has yet to formally recognize or apologize for a single atrocity committed against the Korean people.
4. From Watering Station to Art Destination: A Dialectical Image of Marfa
In the 1970s, Donald Judd began buying land in Marfa, Texas in order to preserve his legacy through permanent displays of his work. Judd’s land acquisitions in Marfa included buildings in central Marfa as well as the POW camps (previously used to hold captured Nazi soldiers from General Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps) that would later become part of the Chinati Foundation. The town of Marfa was born in a post–Gold Rush era of colonial expansion across the American West that instrumentalized white-supremacist laws like the Land Bounty Act, a prelude to the homestead act, offering federally protected land in exchange for the killing of Native Americans and Mexicans. This violent process of territorial acquisition laid the groundwork for the establishment of transportation networks that would further consolidate colonial control.
Marfa was established as a water stop and freight headquarters in 1883 for the Galveston, Harrisburg, and San Antonio Railway—a branch of the Southern Pacific network, which played an essential role in establishing a supply chain between settlements and enabling the first large-scale enforcement of a national border with Mexico. Marfa became a critical site for this, with Fort D. A. Russell (formerly Camp Marfa) established in 1911 to facilitate the movement of troops and supplies.15 This dual function of the railroad enabling economic extraction from the region while facilitating military control over territory exemplifies what David Harvey identifies as the “spatial fix,” where geographical expansion temporarily resolves capitalism’s internal contradictions through the creation of new infrastructure.16
Marfa’s location along a vast expanse of West Texas desert becomes intrinsic to how it establishes its purpose out of an apparent nothingness—one ideal for the development of military projects during the 1940s, which included an airfield, the Nazi POW camps, artillery testing ranges, and the stationing of the 77th Field Artillery Battalion followed by the 81st Chemical Warfare Battalion, whose heavy bombardment capabilities were deployed extensively throughout World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Today, the watering station that enabled westward expansion is reborn as a watering hole for global art tourism. What appears as radical artistic reinvention reveals itself as the continuation of Marfa’s historical function—a supporting node in systems of power and extraction leading to the neoliberal playground we know today. This relational dynamic is not entirely unlike Judd’s peripheral involvements in Korea, where he quietly contributed to foundational establishments for the US military in occupied territory, repurposing military infrastructures while facilitating the forgetting of their violent origins.
5. Aesthetic Extractions: Minimalism in Marfa via American Militarisms in Asia
Judd’s appropriation of Korean aesthetic philosophy is part of a broader pattern in postwar American art. Another site calling to mind vague familiarities with East Asian spatial philosophies of spatial voids, relationships to changing light, and the surrounding landscape is Robert Irwin’s 2016 installation untitled (dawn to dusk). Irwin was a prominent figure of the California Light and Space movement, a genealogy shared by his mentor John McLaughlin. McLaughlin was introduced to Zen Buddhist painting while serving in the US Marines in Japan, before taking roles in military intelligence across China, Burma, and India. After the military, McLaughlin spent significant time in China studying Chinese language, philosophy, and painting.
In McLaughlin’s 2016 exhibition “John McLaughlin Paintings: Total Abstraction,” the artist is described as having been inspired by Zen Buddhist monk Sesshū Tōyō, whose approach to painting “emptiness” or a “marvelous void” has been described by fellow painter Robert C. Morgan as “a fertile ground for making abstract classical painting.”17 The exhibition contains a number of works that collapse and flatten the spatial aesthetics of the traditional Japanese home alongside works with black rectangular arrangements nearly identical to the trigrams in the I-Ching, the ancient Chinese book of divination.
Both Judd and McLaughlin had profound influence on postwar minimalist movements through appropriations of the East Asian spatial philosophies they encountered during their military service. Where McLaughlin embraced a literalism in both material and content, using ready-made stretcher dimensions and disclosing overt conceptual influence, Judd systematically abstracted familiar forms through his theoretical engagements with European artistic traditions.18 One might say that McLaughlin’s transparent appropriation of East Asian aesthetics rendered him less legible to an American art world unprepared for such unpretentious directness. Judd, on the other hand, buried his Korean influences under theoretical frameworks, erasing the imperial conditions that made his aesthetics possible and helping him rise to canonical status.
6. The Vitality of Material and the Paradox of Neutrality
Ruins, rather than simply marking the past, are active sites of memory and forgetting, where history is both buried and unearthed in strange and spectral ways.
—Michael Taussig, Walter Benjamin’s Grave (2006)
Passive stuff, as raw, brute, or inert, feeds human hubris and our earth-destroying fantasies of conquest and consumption.
—Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (2010)
It’s clear from Judd’s writing, his countless interviews, and his legacy in Marfa that his work intends to leave little room for interpretation. Such monolithic and contractually unchallenged purity can (in theory) sustain individual genius indefinitely. Judd and his foundation maintain that the work should be understood solely for its formal quality, materiality, and the way it occupies space, free from the burdens of historical entanglement.19
Inevitably frictions have developed, illustrated through perspectives like Ann Temkin’s 2004 Artforum essay “Wear and Care: Preserving Judd.” Temkin exposes the contradiction between the masculine hardness implied by Judd’s industrial materials and their extreme fragility—the supposedly robust aluminum boxes that cannot even withstand a casual touch without damage. For Temkin, these minimalist sculptures exist in a complex tension where “apparent sturdiness belies a great vulnerability,” creating profound challenges for conservation that reflect deeper philosophical questions about authenticity and intent.20 At the carefully maintained artillery sheds at Chinati, guards vigilantly monitor visitors who might accidentally brush against a pristine aluminum surface. The militaristic protection of these works reveals how the myth of tough, industrial minimalism crumbles under physical reality.
Temkin notes how “Judd’s insistence that his ‘specific objects’ be installed without any physical mediation precludes the platforms, cords, or Plexiglas cases that would normally repel shoes, mops, backs, and fingers.”21 This demand for unmediated experience combined with extreme fragility creates an impossible situation where the work must reject protective barriers while simultaneously requiring extraordinary measures to prevent damage. A feminist reading might note how this dynamic renders invisible the gendered labor of maintenance—the very mops Temkin mentions—that sustains the illusion of industrial self-sufficiency through constant, unacknowledged care work. Temkin quoted Peter Ballantine, art supervisor for the Judd Foundation, admitting to “grim satisfaction” when works returned from loans with scuff marks, since at least they hadn’t been protected by barriers that would compromise Judd’s vision of industrial purity. This tension between tough exterior and the vulnerable interior of minimalist objects echoes the neutral, natural, and universal projection of American power, while simultaneously demanding extraordinary protection and accommodation to maintain its position and prevent challenges to its authority—erasing the labor, maintenance, and historical contingencies that make its presence possible.
7. The Emptiness That Isn’t
Although Judd was politically outspoken and vocally antiwar, he was dismissive of writers like Max Kozloff, who attributed the rise of American art to the rise of American power after World War II.22 Yet minimalist art objects are not merely formal exercises, and neutrality is never actually neutral when economies of power are involved. I can’t help but recall how the nonalignment of independence movements in Korea, Congo, Vietnam, Nicaragua, Ghana, Indonesia, and Iran sought self-determination outside Cold War binaries through grassroots movements neither capitalist nor communist at their core. Yet their nonalignment was either exploited by a communist agenda or reframed as communist allegiance within a Cold War logic that recognized no third position. This pattern of forced legibility continues in the framing of anti-colonial movements in South Africa as anti-white, or of pro-Palestine movements as anti-Semitic.
The emptiness in Korean architecture that Judd refers to is charged with a nothingness that was never actually neutral. Instead, this emptiness is loaded with the strategic power of forgetting. These hollow forms do not simply exist outside history, but actively participate in determining which histories become visible and which remain unseen. Judd’s minimalist object thus becomes a precise material embodiment of the “Forgotten War” and our collective amnesia.
On a material level, the work redeploys wartime industrial capacity for artistic purposes. Alcoa Corporation and its contemporary subsidiary Reynolds Aluminum have been the primary manufacturers of aluminum goods in the United States since providing nearly all aluminum used in World War II and the Korean War. In addition to producing the aluminum used in Judd’s work, Reynolds and Alcoa manufactured parts for aircraft like the B-29 bomber, and the aluminum powders used in napalm and various incendiary bombs. During the 1950s, Reynolds observed the power of this “magic metal,” noting how aluminum powders doubled the explosive power of bombs.23 During the Korean War, the US dropped 635,000 tons of napalm and explosives on Korea, destroying every major North Korean city.24 According to historical sociologist Mimi Shiller, nearly the entire history of aluminum innovation was driven by the necessities of war.25
In the postwar period, Reynolds and Alcoa began shifting production domestically and provided the engineers Judd would consult for his projects, as well as the aluminum sheet goods used by his frequent collaborators Lippincott Inc. and the Bernstein Brothers Sheet Metal Specialties.26 Lippincott was a pioneer in large-scale modern sculpture and produced public works for prominent artists of the time. Both companies used a newfound access to professional manufacturing, adapting skilled labor, techniques, and materials from wartime production.
The same aluminum productions that constructed bomber planes and the bombs dropped on Korean cities produced the hundred untitled mill aluminum works installed in Judd’s repurposed artillery sheds—which themselves housed the artillery units enlisted for the Korean War. Both the site and the material of the artwork carry a memory that shatters our understanding of the pure aesthetic object, awakening us to how Judd’s minimalism is materialized by the same histories of violence it appears to transcend. What is presented as formal innovation is inseparable from the military-industrial complex that made its form and site possible. The Korean “emptiness” that Judd admired now carries the historical weight of a war erased from American consciousness—the very “Forgotten War” that influenced Judd’s early career studying Korean building design while in the Army Corps of Engineers.
8. Architecture of Amnesia
We shape our buildings, and afterwards our buildings shape us.
—Winston Churchill
Judd’s hollow aluminum boxes, displayed inside converted artillery sheds at Chinati, flash against the structures just beyond the walls of the compound—empty concrete forms that call to mind the military training sites at Camp Pendleton marine base near my childhood home. Following the 1993 Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia and rising conflicts in the Middle East, training sites proliferated in regions of the US with arid climate and geography similar to areas of active American military intervention in the Middle East and Africa.
There are formal similarities between minimalist art sites and military training structures that reveal historical connections obscured by their neutral aesthetics: hollow, empty forms, stripped of human touch, constructed in desert landscapes, detached from their origin while transmuting and abstracting their points of inspiration, channeling a kind of void, stripping away context while being deeply embedded in it. The empty minimalist form reveals itself as materializing an aesthetic that absorbs and neutralizes the very military-industrial histories that produce it.
I frequently have nightmares of war. Maybe it’s from my grandmother’s stories of her experiences during Japanese occupation, when she was forced to adopt a Japanese name, or when her uncle was left brain dead for protesting the theft of our family’s crops. Or the immediate violence she witnessed during the Korean War. It could be from stories about my grandfather, who was separated from his family while escaping the bombings in North Korea. Or the story about my grandmother and her sisters searching in the darkness of night for their dad, my great grandfather who was kidnapped from their home. These memories function as a kind of mnemonic shrapnel—fragments of violence embedded across generations, resurfacing under certain conditions to pierce comfortable understandings of time and progress, forcing a confrontation with the haunted wounds of a suppressed past.
The “emptiness” that Judd valorized in Korean architecture returns here as the hollowed-out forms of warfare simulation—connecting aesthetic appreciation to imperial violence in a flash of insight that disrupts carefully maintained narratives of minimalism’s formal purity. When the watering station becomes an art destination, when the line of aluminum production that enabled indiscriminate bombing campaigns becomes sculpture, and when military sites become minimalist monuments, we glimpse what Walter Benjamin called “the moment of awakening,” where history’s contradictions become suddenly visible and the aesthetic object reveals its entanglement with systems of power.27 What appears as empty is in fact charged with the power of forgetting, a precise material embodiment of America’s “Forgotten War” in Korea that continues to shape our present through its strategic erasure from public memory.
Writing from Weimar’s ruins, Benjamin understood that narratives of progress make violence appear inevitable. His dialectical method—identifying ruptures in history’s continuum—becomes urgent as new architectures of amnesia proliferate. In a violent fracturing of time’s smooth operation, the dialectical image refuses nostalgic return and progressive amnesia, insisting that the past isn’t finished, that the logic of destroying cities to save them resurfaces from Korea to Gaza to each new “precision” campaign.
Benjamin wagered that learning to perceive these crystallizations, developing “presence of mind” to recognize when these convergences occur, might open possibilities to different futures not predetermined by inherited cycles of violence and forgetting. The dialectical image offers no guarantees other than the possibility that the suppressed might resurface, that the forgotten might return, that the present’s naturalized violence might become visible as contingent and changeable.
Shortly after writing a first draft of this essay, I submitted requests to the US National Archives and Records Administration for Judd’s Army service records. An automated response informed me that his records were unavailable because they were in the archives that were destroyed by a 1973 fire at the Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri. That fire destroyed an estimated 16–18 million official military personnel files and job records. Roughly 80 percent of Army files and 75 percent of Air Force files vanished, disproportionately affecting records from the US occupation/division of Korea (1945–48), its occupation of Japan (1945–52), and the Korean War (1950–53). Arson was suspected but never proven; the official cause of the fire remains undetermined.
See →.
See →.
Michael Govan, Donald Judd, Flavin Judd, and Jinsang Yoo, Donald Judd (Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, 2023), 21.
Govan et al., Donald Judd, 28.
Govan et al., Donald Judd, 29.
Quoted in Stephanie Sporn, “Think Donald Judd Is a Minimalist? Think Again,” W, September 21, 2023 →.
S. Eylon et al., “Delayed Reaction to Shrapnel Retained in Soft Tissue,” Injury 36, no. 2 (2005).
Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Harvard University Press, 1999), 462–63.
George Katsiaficas, Asia’s Unknown Uprisings, vol. 1, South Korean Social Movements in the 20th Century (PM Press, 2012), chap. 3.
Sheldon H. Harris, “Japanese Biomedical Experimentation During the World War II Era,” in Military Medical Ethics, ed. Thomas E. Beam and Linette R. Sparacino (Office of the Surgeon General, 2003).
Sunny Xiang, Tonal Intelligence: The Aesthetics of Asian Inscrutability During the Long Cold War (Columbia University Press, 2020), 47–55.
Katsiaficas, Asia’s Unknown Uprisings, 66–81; Sang-sook Kim (김상숙), “농민항쟁의 측면에서 본 1946년 10월사건 경북 영천의 사례연구” (A Case Study of the October 1946 Incident in Yeongcheon, Gyeongbuk, from the Perspective of the Peasant Uprising) (Memory & Future Vision, 2011).
Bruce Cumings, The Korean War: A History (Modern Library, 2010), chap. 5; Katsiaficas, Asia’s Unknown Uprisings, chap. 3–4.
Cumings, Korean War, chap. 5; Katsiaficas, Asia’s Unknown Uprisings, chap. 4.
See →.
David Harvey, Spaces of Capital: Towards a Critical Geography (Routledge, 2001), 284–311.
Robert C. Morgan, “John McLaughlin, Paintings 1947–1974,” Brooklyn Rail, April 2013 →.
Jeremy Gilbert-Rolfe, “John McLaughlin,” Artforum 35, no. 3 (November 1996) →.
Donald Judd, “Specific Objects,” in Arts Yearbook 8 (Art Digest, 1965).
Ann Temkin, “Wear and Care: Preserving Judd,” Artforum 42, no. 10 (Summer 2004): 205.
Temkin, “Wear and Care,” 205.
Donald Judd, Donald Judd Writings, ed. Flavin Judd and Caitlin Murray (Judd Foundation and David Zwirner Books, 2016), 276.
Mimi Sheller, “The Uneasy Alliance Between Aluminum and Warfare,” MIT Press Reader, August 19, 2019 →.
Eric Talmadge, “64 Years After Korean War, North Still Digging Up Bombs,” Associated Press, n.d. →; Bruce Cumings, The Origins of the Korean War, vol. 2, The Roaring of the Cataract, 1947–1950 (Princeton University Press, 1990), 753–56.
Sheller, “The Uneasy Alliance.”
Judd, Donald Judd Writings, 198–99.
Benjamin, Arcades Project, 388–89.
