The idea was to make art that was just what it appeared to be, that existed in the here and now, and, additionally, that activated the exhibition space and turned into a kind of performance zone. The cubes, among other things, were about being able to hold a little bit of space in your hand. They had a purity and formal rigor that came out of Minimalism but eschewed Minimalism's aggression and imperiousness. Their effect was to insinuate, rather than insist on, their own virtues, and, in their delicate, antiauthoritarian, transitory way they helped to signal a quiet revolution in American art. From the beginning, much of the public seemed not to get the point.
Simplicity is never really simple to achieve and is easily mistaken for simplemindedness.
Not counting his books and prints, the bulk of the art for which Tuttle has become best known consists of cardboard, wire, bits of wood, light bulbs, dyed cloth. Sometimes he has arranged these things into reliefs, accompanied by a few faint pencil marks on the wall. The value of the materials is meant to be in inverse proportion to the value of the expression they serve. His art depends, in a sense, on one's will to see it. The other day in his studio, a modest rented room he shares with another artist above a furniture warehouse in TriBeCa, he fished through a big cardboard box containing a few dozen smaller, painted cardboard constructions.