The empty airport is one of the most haunting and defining images of our time. As the coronavirus response enforced travel bans and closed borders, images of deserted airports have come to hold a set of often wildly contradictory ideas: the fragility of human existence, the failure or success of government responses to the crisis, a model for a more-sustainable future less reliant on travel, the destruction of the aviation industry, the collapse of global capitalism. Frightening to some, to others empty airports are something to celebrate.
Even before coronavirus, the abandoned airport was a ‘disaster porn’ trope. Here, scenes from the aftermath of terror attacks that turn the terminal into a violent spectacle mesh with images of disaster-ruined airports, such as Sendai Airport buckled then engulfed by waves following the 2011 earthquake and tsunami, and Grand Bahama International Airport wrecked by Hurricane Dorian in 2019. Zombie airports dot the globe. Decommissioned for political or economic reasons and left to decay, some have been revived through the global dark-tourism and film industries—the latter fittingly repurposing them as sets for horror, action, or science-fiction movies.
As anxiety inducing as the empty airport can be, to the traveller it is preferable to a crowded one. Just days before those images of empty airports flooded news feeds, we were inundated with scenes of overcrowded ones—travellers fighting snaking queues, the clock, and each other to get home before travel restrictions kicked in. These images speak more directly to the pandemic than to the airport itself, which, for the most part, is almost always crowded. We grudgingly accept this condition in exchange for the promise of cost savings and security.
Crowded airports are more banal than empty ones. They announce business as usual with all its inherent frustrations. The aviation industry sees the crowded terminal as success, although its advertising often promises vacant spaces, with a smattering of relaxed travellers. Overcrowding is seen as a question of demand exceeding capacity, to which the answer is always expansion: the building of ever-larger terminals, runways, and planes. If and when the aviation industry recovers after this pandemic, those promos featuring empty terminals will likely be replaced with scenes of bustling ones to lure travellers back by insisting that others are on board with flying again.
Another recent event that put the crowded airport back into the news was Donald Trump’s 2019 executive order imposing an immediate travel ban on several Middle Eastern countries. Familiar images of disrupted airports and distraught travellers were quickly followed by scenes of protest, as people travelled to airports to challenge the restrictions placed on the free movement of others. As academic and one-time baggage handler Christopher Schaberg argues, the #OCCUPYAIRPORTS movement started a new form of ‘terminal democracy’ that turns the airport into a site of protest by mobilising its crowds and confined spaces as disruptive tools. That year, demonstrations in the arrivals hall at Hong Kong International Airport shut down one of Asia’s busiest transport hubs, while ongoing protests at Heathrow blocked the building of a third runway.
In Hong Kong especially, the activism was often characterised as terrorism. The media’s replaying of dramatic, violent imagery of largely peaceful protestors was intended to tap into the collective image bank of terrorist attacks on terminals and the particular horror it has come to represent. Ai Weiwei’s researchers were also there, documenting the entire protest movement. His Instagram feed showed a different kind of activism, focused on how the collective body of protestors swelled and engulfed the terminal. If these protests were about reclaiming the airport, the climate crisis has severed our relation to it. Aviation is a major contributor to global warming and the perfect target of efforts to address it. It represents the confluence of the global market, government regulation, big business, and individual accountability. We are told to lower our carbon footprint by buying local, taking fewer flights, staying away from the airport.
The airport has become site, symbol, and battleground for our most pressing political, ecological, and humanitarian issues. It has lost any vestige of its past glamour, and instead become paradoxically emblematic of our troubled times. Even before Covid-19, Christopher Schaberg argued that we may be in the age of ‘the end of airports’. Tell that to the people booking ‘flights to nowhere’ that take off and land at the same place or ordering home-delivered airplane meals.
Battles over what the airport was, is, and might become play out in airports themselves, in policy making, the media, and through representation. Images of dysfunctional terminals—crowded or empty, welcoming or hostile, peaceful or violent—signal a rupture in the representation of airports, and our relationship to them. Contemporary art has been an agent in this process.
Within and beyond the terminal, art has always been called on to represent the airport. The murals commissioned for US airports during aviation’s heyday represent this pact. James Brooks’s Flight (1942) at LaGuardia was one of a number of murals made through the New Deal’s Works Progress Administration Federal Art Project of the 1930s and 1940s, just as the aviation industry was taking off and airports were being built. This art-deco-tinged celebration of aviation’s glories and humanity’s dream of conquering the skies starts with Icarus, and moves through Da Vinci and the Wright brothers, before landing at the ground crews of the modern airport. Seventy-one metres long and wrapping around the rotunda walls, Flight meets its architecture in a suggestive, expansive way that has come to characterise the often-bloated mode of airport art. This is a mural made for a time transfixed by the new possibilities and romance of air travel, when New Yorkers would pay to enter LaGuardia just to watch planes take off and land.
Art has been commissioned for airports ever since. Styles and forms have shifted over time as architects, artists, and authorities have rethought the relationship between art and the airport. Flight only lasted ten years before it was painted over (it was restored in the 1980s). Its initial disappearance was linked to its perceived communist sympathies, indicating that such decisions are rarely purely aesthetic—they move with the ideologies and economics of the times. Yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Alexander Calder’s mobile .125 (installed at JFK International Airport in 1957) or Richard Wilson’s Slipstream (commissioned for Heathrow in 2014) update the ideas in Brooks’s mural. All three works belong to a cache of airport art that evokes the marvel of flight—in these cases by hovering above the heads of travellers, as if preparing them psychologically and physically for the experience to come.
Modern art and aviation were products of the same historical forces and served each other’s needs. The modern gallery and the terminal were presented as spaces apart from the real world, promising escape from everyday reality. They often shared the same brutalist architecture to signal this liberating potential: large white walls, bright lights, expansive atrium-like spaces. This affinity coalesced in the late-twentieth-century idea of the airport as non-place—an anonymous, transitional space detached from the world, operating between nations and interpersonal relations—as defined by anthropologist Marc Augé, built by Eero Saarinen, and fictionised by J.G. Ballard.
9/11 changed airports forever. They hunkered down in the wake of the attacks. Grand concourses and open vistas were replaced with sealed passageways and checkpoints. As journalist Alastair Gordon observed, terminals in the post-terror era became ‘heavy and grounded, whereas earlier ones had been light and soaring’. New security procedures redefined travellers as potential threats. Gordon argues that anti-terrorist measures remade the airport as an ‘electronically controlled environment rivalled only by maximum security prisons’, pointing out that some architects were responsible for both kinds of structure. Where anonymity and freedom were once built into the romance of travel and the idea of the non-place, full disclosure and submission to security screening procedures now became prerequisites for entering the terminal. Art played a key role in this new terminal reality. Airports increased their art-commissioning programmes to help humanise what had become depressing, disorientating spaces—a charm offensive to distract and amuse travellers trapped within a security system that had turned them into objects to be processed. As a tool of that system, art was asked to carry those human values that the airport had lost—freedom, individuality, revelry—while also often assisting with wayfinding.
As airports expanded over the following years, they were reimagined as destinations rather than transport hubs—vast entertainment complexes where travellers would happily spend time and money. Along with their physical footprints, airports have expanded their art offerings. A modern-looking abstract sculpture suspended from the ceiling doesn’t cut it anymore. Major airports now often run full art programmes, which may include site-specific installations, exhibitions, artist residencies, walking tours for non-passengers, education programmes, and even museums in private lounges. In some of these new ‘airport-museum hybrids’, security has come to the assistance of art, reversing those post-9/11 dynamics. Amsterdam Airport Schiphol has rotating exhibitions of Dutch masters from the Rijksmuseum, displayed behind glass in climate-controlled conditions. After passport control, it’s the most secure place in the terminal.
Many airports now work with museums on their cultural offering. The relationship makes economic sense. Airport contracts provide cultural institutions with revenue and visitation, while a substantial art presence sees increased spending in airports’ retail spaces and restaurants. Brussels Airport’s animated Bruegel the Elder installation of 2019 seemed to comment on the pacifying role art is also asked to play within the wellness drive of today’s airports. His chaotic and violent images of peasant life seem too close to those familiar scenes of delay-induced travel rage that airport-wellness initiatives seek to assuage through art- appreciation and therapy classes, as well as therapy dogs, yoga, and meditation rooms.
Another recent airport trend is towards becoming a ‘gateway to local culture’ rather than a ‘gateway to the world’—an about-face on the old aspirations of the non-place and late capitalism’s dream of the global village. Chain stores and franchise restaurants have been replaced by local venders and signage rewritten to capture local dialects and histories. Living walls of endemic plants have become a ubiquitous part of ‘going green’ initiatives, though few can dream of matching the four-storey rainforest in Singapore Changi Airport. The commissioning of local art and culture has ramped up alongside other community-based initiatives. At one end of this spectrum is Wellington International Airport’s suspended Lord of the Rings props-as-sculpture that proudly proclaim the city ‘the Middle of Middle-Earth’ and promote its film industry. At the other end might be two recent redevelopment projects in Aotearoa New Zealand by Māori artists that rethink the airport as a bicultural or indigenous space.
New Plymouth Airport recently reopened with artist Rangi Kipa representing the perspective of local hapū Puketapu, whose land the airport sits on. Kipa’s art transforms the terminal into an embodiment of the story of Te Ātiawa ancestor Tamarau, who guides the traveller every step of the journey. Artist Johnson Witehira contributed to the recent expansion and redesign of Auckland International Airport’s departures terminal. His role was firstly consultative—to gather the journeying stories of three mana-whenua groups who have a fraught history with the airport, especially following the desecration of wāhi tapu (sacred sites) in the construction of a new runway in the early 2000s. He then ensured these mana-whenua and broader bicultural narratives were embedded into the fabric of the terminal through an integrated-design approach that included carving designs into walls and seating, and stencilling them onto pillars.
Kipa and Witehira insisted on being involved from the outset in the planning and design of these facilities, countering the history of Māori art and culture being tacked on at the end of public projects as tokenistic signs of identity and engagement. Rather than stand-alone works hanging on the wall or from the ceiling, their projects are threaded through the structure of the terminal. Witehira refused to make conventional ‘airport art’ that travellers could walk past and ignore. Integrating his work with the terminal’s structure also protects it from future redevelopments. He was conscious of the fate of Aotearoa’s most famous airport mural, Ralph Hotere’s Godwit/Kuaka (1977), that once hung in the arrivals hall of this airport, but was removed and dumped without consultation as part of a previous redevelopment. These projects are part of a new focus on the local and indigenous manifesting in airports globally. In Aotearoa, it’s a case of a global trend meeting local Treaty responsibilities.
Both projects reveal the tensions that come with these new possibilities for both art and the airport. There was no place in the New Plymouth-airport redesign for an aluminium relief mural by local artist Don Driver, which had hung in the terminal for fifty years. It commemorates Charles Kingsford Smith’s first passenger-carrying trans-Tasman flight in 1933. There was an outcry, although one councillor clearly overstated the case in claiming ‘its fate is probably the single most pressing issue in the minds of many in the community’. The decision to make a replica and plop it safely outside the terminal has not quelled the debate.
Airports have again called on art to assist in reshaping their image and operations, this time in more ethical, sustainable, and community-focused ways—even if the cracks in this allegiance are starting to show. Over recent years, a countertradition has emerged that forges a more critical relationship between art and the airport—art made about the airport, not for it. It is not commissioned and is mostly unsanctioned (though projects utilising the spaces or technologies of the airport require institutional support and sometimes participation). Much of it emerges from the traveller’s perspective and reworks the airport’s iconography while using or subverting its processes. Some artists address the airport as form or symbol, others take on the history and politics of specific airports. This is not art for the terminal, it is Terminal Art.
Brian Eno and Martha Rosler are key figures in Terminal Art. Eno’s album Ambient 1: Music for Airports (1978) came out of his frustration with the canned music he was subjected to in the transit lounge at Cologne Bonn Airport. His minimalist soundscape could be looped to defuse the always-anxious atmosphere of the terminal, and pointed out to airport designers that sound should always be a consideration. (If the airport seems a strange place for the birth of ambient music, what about land art? Robert Smithson’s monumental earthworks like Spiral Jetty (1970) were inspired by looking down from an airplane window while scoping a commission for Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport in 1966.) Martha Rosler’s In the Place of the Public: Airport Series started with taking photographs of airport interiors while travelling in the 1980s. It took a decade to realise what sat behind this compulsion—the understanding ‘that airports function as a microcosm or a model of the world as it is right now’. Since then, Rosler has found ways to recast the project to capture how this model has subsequently broken and shifted, especially in the wake of 9/11 and the migration crisis. Rosler often focuses on labour practices rendered invisible by the airport and ignored by travellers.
Eno and Rosler move beyond the airport as a generic non-place—towards representing it as a profoundly human and social space that is culturally and politically charged, full of drama and emotion—but they don’t leave the airport behind entirely. London City Airport marked the fortieth anniversary of Eno’s album by playing it for a day in 2018, while Rosler has shown her photographs in Frankfurt Airport terminal.
9/11 was the catalyst for Terminal Art, fundamentally changing the idea and reality of the airport, as well as the ways that art could intersect with it. Surrendering human agency to new systems of surveillance and control became the pressing issue. While large sculptures and abstract murals once defined the airport as non-place, Terminal Art is dominated by photography and moving image. These are not only mediums of transit, they can also turn the airport’s technologies of surveillance and documentation back against it. Hassan Elahi’s ongoing project Tracking Transience (2003–ongoing) exemplifies the Terminal Art subgenre of sousveillance (‘surveillance from below’). In 2012, he was incorrectly detained and interrogated at Detroit Metro Airport, and placed on a terrorist-watch list. Since then, he has ‘assisted’ authorities by using surveillance technologies to provide full disclosure of his movements, activities, and interactions, online in real time. His defiance is masked as compliance, where ‘micro acts of consent become macro acts of dissent’.
Terminal Art does not necessarily offer solutions to the airport’s problems. It can be apolitical, irreverent, even satirical, revelling in the complexities and ambiguities of one of the most paradoxical spaces humanity has built for itself. Where art located in the airport tries to assuage travellers, Terminal Art is often deliberately disorientating and confounding. It also knows that contemporary art cannot take any high ground. Art’s complicity with airport politics is a constant undercurrent. Elmgreen and Dragset’s airport-as-exhibition at Seoul’s Plateau Samsung Museum of Art (2015) came complete with boarding passes, security checks, and a baggage carousel with a lone suitcase. The artists conflated the aesthetics and politics of the airport and the gallery as symbiotic sites of power that regulate the global flow of ideas, capital, and people.
Like the aviation industry, the art world has become a target for climate-change actions. Contemporary art is a global enterprise that necessitates travel and embraces nomadism as its modus operandi. Its people and art move around a neverending global cycle of exhibitions and residencies—at substantial environmental cost. Terminal Art comes out of and depends on this system, while often biting the hand that feeds it. It can be part of the problem, part of the solution, neither or both—but these tensions are always close to the surface. Fischli and Weiss’s once-lauded Airport Photographs (1987–2012)—around 1,000 images taken while they travelled the world on art business—was recently called out as a destructive cliché of art travel.
Swiss uber-curator Hans Ulrich Obrist embodies these tensions. Once described as ‘the latest patron saint of art-world travel, his reliquary a rolling suitcase’, Obrist is estimated to have made over 2,000 flights in twenty years. He conducted meetings and did interviews and other work on the way to and from airports or in the air. His gallery visits were even described on these terms: ‘Obrist was in and out remarkably quickly, like a man with a plane to catch.’ Or rather, he used to be like this. Now Director of London’s Serpentine Galleries, Obrist recently announced that ‘Ecology will be at the heart of everything we do.’  This involves significantly reducing his own carbon emissions. Aware that he is largely responsible for popularising the belief that travel is essential for both the curator and the artist, he now opposes ‘fly-in, fly-out curating’. The patron saint of art travel has clipped his own wings. He has also committed the Serpentine to ‘slow programming’, designed to reduce the environmental footprint of its exhibitions.
We can’t all follow his new lead (as, in truth, few could afford to follow his earlier one). It takes a certain position and privilege to make such choices, and potentially sacrifice the benefits of being part of the global art network. Travel is especially vital to the art ecosystem in Aotearoa, which is based on countering the country’s crushing distance from art centres. Our most successful artists are predominately expats or frequent flyers, operating through the global art world. We celebrate historical expatriate artists like Frances Hodgkins who escaped these shores (even if she had to take the boat) and crave the international validation when Mata Aho Collective are selected for Documenta or London’s Royal Academy announces a Rita Angus exhibition. Art made here needs to be part of the global discussion and can’t take the train like Obrist. It’s a government priority. Creative New Zealand funds artists, galleries, and events that take art from Aotearoa to the world, and, through its Te Manu Ka Tau Flying Friends programme, brings in key overseas artworld figures. Its highest-profile project is the Venice Biennale—the global art world’s signature event—which we have participated in since 2001. It has featured our artists making art for the international art world (Simon Denny, whose 2015 Venice project features in this exhibition, conducted one of those inflight interviews with Obrist).
Calls to cancel the jet-fuelled international art circuit are bound up with the idea that it enforces a global art monoculture—that the same privileged artists and galleries show the same sort of work to the same sort of people with a baggage-carousel-like regularity. But over recent years, indigenous and first-nation artists have taken centre stage within these models. Samoan–New Zealand artist Yuki Kihara is our next representative at Venice—the first Pacific artist recognised in this way. Her work is already as well-travelled and international facing as any previously selected artist. Johnson Witehira connects his Auckland Airport project to its Vancouver counterpart, which presents itself as an indigenous space through commissioning Northwest and Pacific Coast First-Nation artists. He has passed through that airport as part of a Creative New Zealand–funded indigenous-exchange programme that flies artists and curators in and out of Aotearoa, Australia, and Canada. The ‘fly-in, fly-out’ mode of contemporary art serves many different artists, cultures, and needs, and the opposition between #lovinglocal and being #antiworldwide doesn’t hold.
The global art system is an accelerator of climate change, though its defenders often point to more destructive industries like fashion or construction. Contemporary art often flirts with climate change as an interesting issue, rather than an urgent problem. This reluctance has been explained through the art world’s enthrallment with the possibilities of travel, or even because of its historical dependence on sponsorship from energy and aviation companies. In 2019, environmental activist Greta Thunberg popularised the term ‘flygskam’ (flight shame) and promoted the use of alternative travel options to lower carbon emissions. Brazilian artist Rubem Robierb took her message to the heart of global art-world excess (and to the US city most susceptible to the impacts of climate change). At Art Basel Miami Beach, he floated a two-tonne, ten-metre-long ice sculpture spelling out her message ‘HOW DARE YOU’ in a hotel pool, exemplifying the virtue-signalling side of contemporary art’s engagement with climate change.
Thunberg’s rise was paralleled by that of another Swedish woman with an important message for humanity. In 2018, New York’s Guggenheim Museum staged the first US exhibition dedicated to turn-of-the-twentieth-century artist-mystic Hilma af Klint. Made in secret, her paintings were kept hidden for a future time that would understand her message. They feel pressing today because their quest to address the big questions of existence through a unique fusion of artistic, spiritualist, and ecological enquiry goes beyond the grandstanding of much ‘issues based’ contemporary art. The world has fallen hard for af Klint. Exhibitions in Stockholm, London (curated by Obrist), and New York shattered attendance records. Others have been staged at São Paulo, Venice, Tel Aviv, and Copenhagen, with future showings lined up around the globe. The opportunity for global audiences to experience af Klint’s work—as it is being rediscovered and worked out, changing art history—is unprecedented and revelatory. Yet, like all exhibitions and forms of cultural production, it comes with a significant carbon footprint. The ultimate answer to the art world’s environmental problem would be to close down the global circuit of exhibitions, travel, transport, and large-scale production. But, in this case—and many others—that loss would be too great. As Kyle Chayka concludes in his essay ‘Can the Art World Kick Its Addiction to Flying?’, we have to accept that art-world practices accelerate climate change, that ‘these issues are built into the nature of art itself’, but must find ways to think how this damage can be minimised. Do we have to sacrifice Hilma for Greta, or vice versa? Surely we need both.
Terminal is an exhibition of international art flown into Aotearoa that tracks the ways contemporary artists have contested the image, experience, and idea of the airport. It is an exhibition with global relevance, especially at a time of climate crisis, mass migration, and recent border closures at the hands of a deadly virus that has shut down the art world, the aviation industry, and everyday life. These issues have special relevance for a nation at the bottom of the world that trades in OEs, export goods, and ways to overcome its geographic isolation—especially with its art and culture.
The exhibition and this catalogue are divided into four zones: Arrivals, Screening, The Runway, and Departures. Some artists have made major bodies of work on airports; others have passed through the airport as part of other investigations. Some of the work was made in airports. Much of it references specific airports. Fictional and real airports collide in the exploration of the routines and politics of contemporary travel and contemporary art—what it means to live, travel, and make art in the twenty-first century. Terminal revels in a paradox: this is an exhibition about art and the airport made for a time that is probably witnessing the end of airports, and, perhaps, of art as we know it.
Published in Terminal (Wellington: City Gallery Wellington, 2020), 4-16.
 Christopher Schaberg, ’Terminal Democracy’, Real Life, 6 February 2017, http://www.reallifemag.com/terminal-democracy/.
 Christopher Schaberg, The End of Airports (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015).
 Tario Mzezewa, ‘The Flight Goes Nowhere. And It’s Sold Out’, New York Times, 19 September 2020, http://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/19/travel/airlines-pandemic-flights-to-nowhere.html; Laura Reiley, ‘Some People Miss Travel So Much that They Are Ordering Airplane Food Delivered to Their Home’, Washington Post, 8 May 2020, http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2020/05/07/jetblue-airline-food-home-delivery/.
 Alastair Gordon, Naked Airport: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Revolutionary Structure (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2004), 236.
 Ibid., 268.
 Lilian Mironov, Airport Aura: A Spatial History of Airport Infrastructure (Zurich: Vdf Hochschulverlag AG, 2020), 151.
 Dorothy Spears, ‘In a Stressful Setting, Artistic Treatment for the Traveler’, New York Times, 16 March 2011, http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/17/arts/design/airports-as-art-exhibition-areas.html.
 Cristina Alcivar, ‘The Biggest Airport Wellness Trends of 2019’, Vane, 14 February 2019, http://www.vanemag.com/the-biggest-airport-wellness-trends-of-2019/.
 Dorothy Spears, ‘In a Stressful Setting, Artistic Treatment for the Traveler’.
 Jared Savage, ‘Māori Angry as Burial Site Dug Up’, New Zealand Herald, 9 May 2009, http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10571341.
 Christina Persico, ‘Councillors Updated on Don Driver Airport Mural’, Taranaki Daily News, 13 February 2019, http://www.stuff.co.nz/taranaki-daily-news/news/110566697/councillors-updated-on-don-driver-airport-mural.
 Jimmy Stamp, ‘Music for Airports Soothes the Savage Passenger’, Smithsonian Magazine, 7 June 2012, http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/music-for-airports-soothes-the-savage-passenger-116079759/.
 Anne Doran, ‘They Know Why You Fly: Martha Rosler on Her Airport Photographs’, ARTnews.com, 15 August 2017, http://www.artnews.com/art-news/artists/they-know-why-you-fly-martha-rosler-on-her-airport-photographs-8816/.
 Rachel Hall, The Transparent Traveler: The Performance and Culture of Airport Security (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2015), 18.
 Jason Farago, ‘The Merry-Go-Round Stopped. What Sort of Art Will Emerge?’, New York Times, 25 March 2020, http://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/25/arts/design/coronavirus-digital-artists.html.
 D.T. Max, ‘The Art of Conversation: The Curator Who Talked His Way to the Top’, The New Yorker, 8 December 2014, http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/12/08/art-conversation.
 Hans Ulrich Obrist: ‘Ecology Will Be at the Heart of Everything We Do’, The Art Newspaper, 3 February 2020, http://www.theartnewspaper.com/news/archive-leaders-hans-ulrich-obrist-look-to-artists-to-shape-the-future.
 Niru Ratnam, ‘Could Contemporary Art Be Less Wasteful?, Apollo, 27 January 2020, http://www.apollo-magazine.com/contemporary-art-waste-kate-mcmillan-niru-ratnam/.
 Kyle Chayka, ‘Can the Art World Kick Its Addiction to Flying?’, Frieze, 26 December 2019, http://www.frieze.com/article/can-art-world-kick-its-addiction-flying.
 Mel Evans, ‘How Activists Made the Art World Wake Up to the Climate Crisis’, Frieze, 11 February 2020, www. frieze.com/article/how-activists-made-art-world-wake-climate-crisis.
 Kyle Chayka, ‘Can the Art World Kick Its Addiction to Flying?’.