The towering list of names is impressive: Vito Acconci, Carl Andre, Richard Artschwager, John Baldessari, Robert Barry, Joseph Beuys, Daniel Buren, Sandro Chia, Francesco Clemente, Enzo Cucchi, Gilbert & George, Dan Graham, Hans Haacke, Neil Jenney, Donald Judd, Anselm Kiefer, Joseph Kosuth, Sol LeWitt, Richard Long, Gordon Matta-Clark, Mario Merz, Sigmar Polke, Gerhard Richter, Ed Ruscha, Julian Schnabel, Cy Twombly, Andy Warhol, Lawrence Weiner. Stacked one on top of the other, the appearance of these artists’ names might typically signal the inclusion of their works in a group exhibition, but here they serve as part of an audio-and-text installation by an artist who literally buries her name under the more recognisable names of her contemporaries. At the very bottom of the heap, a modest line identifies the work: ‘Birdcalls by Louise Lawler’. Perhaps only after reading this acknowledgement is one able to connect the ambient audio track and its incongruous cries with the names on the wall. The sounds are made by Lawler, who strains her voice to sing the names of twenty-eight celebrated male artists as though they were the songs of twenty-eight unique species of bird. She calls the first, last or full name of each artist as indicated by the part of the name that is printed in red or green, each name given its own specifically nuanced call: ‘Acconci’ is sung in a shrill staccato (‘acconCHEE!!’); ‘Gilbert & George’ takes a low-pitched chatter (‘Gilberengeorge, Georgengilber! Gilberengeorge!’ ); and ‘Artschwager’ has a manic squawk (‘aa-arrRRRT-SCHWAGERRRR!!!’). Like the artists