An exploration into Eva Hesse and disrupting categorical pedagogies through non-representation.
The cord protrudes from the silver walls of the frame with an unconventional grace. Extending outward into the exhibit space, almost like a stray line drawn in midair. This fluidity disrupts the rigid form that hangs back–a quiet defiance against the strict form of Minimalism.
Eva Hesse considered this work, Hang Up (1966) to be one of the most provocative works she has made. Characterized as a non-representational work that lies between sculpture and painting, Hang Up is an inquiry into the limits of Minimalist sculpture, evoking absurdity through eccentric abstractions.
I first encountered Hesse’s work as part of my high school curriculum. I remember an illegible yet familiar bodily sensation would always surface within me. Works like Repetition Nineteen III, composed of 19 translucent vessels situated on the ground, seemed to suggest an uncanny anthropomorphism. Each resin and polyester form, with its unique folds and indentations, felt as though I was looking down at 19 different temperaments—their vulnerable imperfections were deeply relatable. Repetition Nineteen III reflects a shift away from the rigid, impersonal qualities of Minimalism, marking a broader transition toward what would later be called Post-Minimalism.
Like many art movements, Minimalism is often framed through a masculine lens, with artists such as Judd and Andre positioned as its central figures. When I found myself drawn to minimalist sculptures, I felt a kind of panic—was I once again placing these men on a pedestal for their supposed creative genius?
In the midst of these doubts, I returned to Hesse. Her work seemed to bridge the reductive qualities of Minimalism with soft materials, irregular lines, and fluid forms that were emotionally evocative. Women’s work has been excluded from the fine art discourse, frequently categorized as craft rather than art. Yet Hesse’s use of weaving and threading disrupted these conventions, infusing craft techniques with complex conceptual and symbolic meaning. To me, her sculptures evoke the tangled internal conflicts surrounding my ideas of femininity.
Lucy Lippard, an influential art critic, describes the connection between Hesse’s sculptures and her physicality, writing that Hesse moves “out from a body identification into a physical identification with the sculpture itself, as though creating a counterpart of herself”(Lippard, 197). As someone constantly reflecting on my own physicality and how others perceive it, I find comfort in seeing parts of myself—fragments of my body—through her works, expressed in ways that transcends the human form.
Hesse herself recalled the difficulty of navigating an art world dominated by men, writing to artist and friend Ethyl Honig: “My determination and will are strong, but I am lacking so in self-esteem that I never seem to overcome. Also, competing all the time with a man with self-confidence in his work and [who] is successful also.”
I relate to Hesse’s struggle in confronting my own work, though I remain skeptical of overgeneralizing her art—or mine—through the lens of gender. I hesitate to label Hesse’s work as feminine, despite many curatorial and institutional narratives doing so. The circulation of terms like “feminine” or “female” in the art world makes me question the limits of such definitions. If an artwork is feminine, what exactly is a feminine characteristic?
Non-representational art has the capacity to reach many audiences, embodying myriad nuances of specific lived experiences. These formal choices offer intimate spaces for connection—between object and viewer, artist and observer—that I fear might be constrained by rigid identity categories. As a maker, I question whether I can separate the idea of femininity from my own work—and if I can, whether I might still find recognition within the larger framework of contemporary art galleries.
Historically, women’s bodies in Western portraiture have been hyper-visible, shaped for the male gaze. These images were often filtered through a white, heteronormative lens, while marginalized bodies were further exploited—rendered caricatures shaped by colonial narratives. This dynamic extends into sculpture, where material forms intersect with bodies, reflecting how we memorialize, commodify, or degrade physicality through representation.
Hesse’s work asks viewers to reconsider how bodies can be represented through sculpture. The phrase “hang up” not only references the formal qualities of the work but alludes to an internal conflict, a constriction of expression. As Lippard suggests, Hesse evokes empathy by conjuring an imaginary body—one that moves beyond the notion of sex. Perhaps this double body, existing outside of rigid categories, allows us to communicate beyond labels of identity.
Gordon Hall, sculptor and writer, articulates this possibility in his essay Object Lessons: “It is not enough to liberate sexuality; we must liberate ourselves from the notion of sex” (Hall, 23). If distinctions between sex and gender dissolve, blurring the boundaries between material and immaterial, the experience of viewing sculpture might parallel this process. Sculpture, though non-interactive, holds the power to evoke visceral responses without demanding explanations. Perhaps this is one way we can encounter a body—our own or another’s—without needing to define or justify it.
Works Cited:
(Cover Image: Hesse, Eva. Hang Up, 1966, WikiArt)
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