Towards a critical institution
Daniel put up his striped posters on the street, Andrea slept with a collector, and Hans did his political poll in the MOMA. It did not work; they were all swallowed and digested. They are all part now of what they have been trying to escape so hard. I even watched Andrea sleep with the collector in the Pop Life exhibition in Tate Modern; I do not think her plan was to have anything to do with Tate or Pop art. I can hear you think; what is the point anyway, when you get eaten by the institution you try to avoid? Maybe they should have embraced it; at least they would have made more money.
It all started when Marcel put up his fountain. But that is almost an entire age ago. In the meantime we went inside the white cube and out again. We dumped our collections and moved into the Kunsthalle. We tried building stuff in nature, but came running back to the gallery in no time. Institutional critique has had its best time. I do not mean to say we should stop being critical about the institute; we should never stop being critical. But I propose we should be critical from within the wonderful institutions we have and use them as a powerful instrument in the art world.
The audience has changed a lot as well. Now that we have Wikipedia, we always want a second opinion. Educating the audience through wall texts and colorful flyers is not enough anymore. Even the Japanese tourist standing in front of Vincent’s sunflowers wants to listen to an audio tour.
To work towards a critical attitude, institutions need to move around the art itself, which is always the starting point. Maybe Andrea and Daniel should try to talk to the institute and find ways of working together instead of avoiding each other. Programming around an exhibition should not have an inherent political agenda, but create open possibilities for the audience to reflect critically on different situations. The exhibition as the center of a critical platform. As seen in institutions like the ICA, South London Gallery or the Whitechapel gallery, this often takes the form of artist talks, events and discussion nights. Interesting guests are invited to enrich the experience the audience gets in seeing an exhibition. In the case of a recent exhibition at the ICA, Olga, Pjotr and Boris from the Russian collective Chto Delat? curated an exhibition with lots of events around it, using the ICA as a host for this critical platform.
I do not mean to say seeing just the exhibition is no longer enough. There is nothing wrong with enjoying Vincent’s paintings on a Sunday afternoon. But I do think it is important that art is accessible on different levels. When you want to find out more, and are interested in deepening your experience, the possibility should be there. The institute should play a key role in working directly with the artist to create possibilities for providing knowledge and stimulating discussion about contemporary art.
Showing posts with label short texts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short texts. Show all posts
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The White Cube
The building rises up behind the old streets of Piccadilly like a cathedral. The only materials it is visibly made of are white painted concrete, steel and glass. The building at Mason’s Yard is the latest gallery space of Jay Joplin’s White Cube. Recently build, its name is no lie: this is the ultimate White Cube.
When you get inside, the place resembles all what comes to mind when we think of a modern gallery space. White walls, sealed windows and artificial light coming from above. The outside world is completely blocked out. Keeping out change and time of the turning world around us, the White Cube becomes a non-space. This building has no traces of life: no scratches on the walls, no faded colors or light, just white perfection. Non-space can in science be seen as the opposite of a black hole. It is not an empty space; it is a volume empty of space. It has no identity.
The high ceilings, the white walls and the light do however suggest we are in some sort of sacred place. The gallery becomes like a chamber of eternal display, almost like a church or the holy buildings in ancient Egypt. Art is ritually presented, and through the feeling of eternity we are suggested all the art we see in here is indeed a masterpiece.
The religious aspects of the white cube also have effects on us as a spectator. When we enter this building, we leave a certain part of ourselves outside the door. We switch on our artistic attitude. This is necessary for us to know how we should behave in such a space. Our artistic attitude is switched on by the surroundings of the white cube. This heavy context immediately tells us we are looking at art, we are not supposed to touch it, and we have to keep quiet. Also, we know we are expected to think about the art, before we can understand it. This means what we left outside of the white cube is our body. All we need is our eyes connected to our brains. When entering the white cube, we accept to be a reduced version of ourselves. We are just spiritual beings now.
On the one hand, the white cube draws all our attention towards the artworks, glorifying them. The space does not distract us and gives us a breath of fresh air from the busy world outside. But on the other side the white cube is a prison of social context and lacks everything that defines life and therefore art. By defining the context of art in such a heavy way, it almost becomes irrelevant if there is an empty canvas on show or a great work of art.
When you get inside, the place resembles all what comes to mind when we think of a modern gallery space. White walls, sealed windows and artificial light coming from above. The outside world is completely blocked out. Keeping out change and time of the turning world around us, the White Cube becomes a non-space. This building has no traces of life: no scratches on the walls, no faded colors or light, just white perfection. Non-space can in science be seen as the opposite of a black hole. It is not an empty space; it is a volume empty of space. It has no identity.
The high ceilings, the white walls and the light do however suggest we are in some sort of sacred place. The gallery becomes like a chamber of eternal display, almost like a church or the holy buildings in ancient Egypt. Art is ritually presented, and through the feeling of eternity we are suggested all the art we see in here is indeed a masterpiece.
The religious aspects of the white cube also have effects on us as a spectator. When we enter this building, we leave a certain part of ourselves outside the door. We switch on our artistic attitude. This is necessary for us to know how we should behave in such a space. Our artistic attitude is switched on by the surroundings of the white cube. This heavy context immediately tells us we are looking at art, we are not supposed to touch it, and we have to keep quiet. Also, we know we are expected to think about the art, before we can understand it. This means what we left outside of the white cube is our body. All we need is our eyes connected to our brains. When entering the white cube, we accept to be a reduced version of ourselves. We are just spiritual beings now.
On the one hand, the white cube draws all our attention towards the artworks, glorifying them. The space does not distract us and gives us a breath of fresh air from the busy world outside. But on the other side the white cube is a prison of social context and lacks everything that defines life and therefore art. By defining the context of art in such a heavy way, it almost becomes irrelevant if there is an empty canvas on show or a great work of art.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
the spectacle
The Ladies’ Paradise
Rianne Groen
When you enter Harrods, one of the world’s most famous department stores, all your senses are sharpened at once. A door is held open for you, upon which you enter through a wade of perfume. Faces smile at you, you smile back. Your feet sink in the carpet as you see a perfectly lit Yves Saint Laurent bag. But the true spectacle of Harrods is to be found in the center of the store: the Egyptian staircase. You enter a world of splendor, kitsch and banal wealth, and you will love it. While going up the escalators, the gold shimmers and soft music plays. The smell of perfume shifts to the smell of luxury leather goods. When you get off at one of the floors, it is hard to get back. There are so many objects of desire…
Posters of celebrities are displayed all over the walls, promoting fashion or other must-haves. Their faces are comforting: they are the spectacular representations of living human beings, here to be worshipped by us.
The gold of the escalators, the Egyptian ornaments, are all as fake as you can make them. But this is exactly what we like so much about them: it is as fake as the special effects in the old Star Wars movies, but we enjoy the fake to enjoy the spectacle.
Halfway down the escalators is a reminder to perhaps one of the most spectacular events in media history: it is a monument to Dodi Al Fayed, son of Harrods’ former owner, and Princess Diana. The monument is shaped in the form of a glass pyramid. It holds a wineglass with a lipstick mark of the princess. In its sentimentality and in memory of the event it perfectly fits the spectacle of the Egyptian staircase.
When you leave the Egyptian staircase to find yet another floor of commodities, you enter a place called the shoe boudoir. In this dark place, commodity fetishism is at its best. Diamond encrusted sandals are placed on a marble base, lit by several small spots to dazzle you. The heels are so high and thin you do not even dare to touch them. These shoes are truly not for wearing.
The people at Harrods proudly claim to sell ‘all things for all people, everywhere’. When Ronald Reagan once phoned Harrods to ask if they sold elephants, the reply was “would that be African or Indian sir?”. The department store is a whole world in objects, turning into an objectified world. The manifestation of the spectacle makes us into consumers of illusions.
The spectacle sucks us in, and without noticing you are standing outside with several bags in your hand. We take our commodities to the counter, and when we have paid they ask us: “do you need anything else?”. Difficult question.
Rianne Groen
When you enter Harrods, one of the world’s most famous department stores, all your senses are sharpened at once. A door is held open for you, upon which you enter through a wade of perfume. Faces smile at you, you smile back. Your feet sink in the carpet as you see a perfectly lit Yves Saint Laurent bag. But the true spectacle of Harrods is to be found in the center of the store: the Egyptian staircase. You enter a world of splendor, kitsch and banal wealth, and you will love it. While going up the escalators, the gold shimmers and soft music plays. The smell of perfume shifts to the smell of luxury leather goods. When you get off at one of the floors, it is hard to get back. There are so many objects of desire…
Posters of celebrities are displayed all over the walls, promoting fashion or other must-haves. Their faces are comforting: they are the spectacular representations of living human beings, here to be worshipped by us.
The gold of the escalators, the Egyptian ornaments, are all as fake as you can make them. But this is exactly what we like so much about them: it is as fake as the special effects in the old Star Wars movies, but we enjoy the fake to enjoy the spectacle.
Halfway down the escalators is a reminder to perhaps one of the most spectacular events in media history: it is a monument to Dodi Al Fayed, son of Harrods’ former owner, and Princess Diana. The monument is shaped in the form of a glass pyramid. It holds a wineglass with a lipstick mark of the princess. In its sentimentality and in memory of the event it perfectly fits the spectacle of the Egyptian staircase.
When you leave the Egyptian staircase to find yet another floor of commodities, you enter a place called the shoe boudoir. In this dark place, commodity fetishism is at its best. Diamond encrusted sandals are placed on a marble base, lit by several small spots to dazzle you. The heels are so high and thin you do not even dare to touch them. These shoes are truly not for wearing.
The people at Harrods proudly claim to sell ‘all things for all people, everywhere’. When Ronald Reagan once phoned Harrods to ask if they sold elephants, the reply was “would that be African or Indian sir?”. The department store is a whole world in objects, turning into an objectified world. The manifestation of the spectacle makes us into consumers of illusions.
The spectacle sucks us in, and without noticing you are standing outside with several bags in your hand. We take our commodities to the counter, and when we have paid they ask us: “do you need anything else?”. Difficult question.
the beloved object
The sea in a shell – Rianne Groen
When you press it against your ear, you can hear the sea. At least, that is what my grandmother used to tell me when I was younger. I have seen quite some seas and oceans since, but none of them sound like this.
The shape is like a human heart, and it can just fit in my hand. On top of it is a carving of a woman, which is quite badly executed. I have no idea who the woman is; she has a sharp nose, pearls in her ears and a great haircut. Maybe she was a Greek goddess, the butcher’s daughter, or what the carver wished his wife to look like. The ugliness has something appealing in it. The kind of people who collect Swarovski crystal dogs and fake Hummel figurines would love it. The creases are filled with grey dust. It must be at least fifty years old, maybe more.
The bottom is a pink fleshy color, like a plump mouth with sharp teeth. The opening looks like a big animal growling at you. Sometimes I see it as a more sensual image, like the frightening flower vaginas in Pink Floyd’s animations. I like to feel it; it is smooth and curved, but at the same time rough and prickly. A blind man would enjoy the object, because there is so much to feel. Perhaps he would be slightly confused about the carved part on top, which mixes natural shapes with an unnatural human form.
Actually, something used to live in there, way before it got to me. I do not know what it looked like, but it probably had several little legs and a very soft body so it could squeeze in. It used to live on the bottom of the sea, surrounded by sand, shiny fishes and sharks. Sometimes it would hide. The weight would be heavy on its back, but it would be safe because this was his home. Maybe that is where it got its sound, on the bottom of the ocean. But it is now empty, and nobody lives there anymore. I do not think the carved woman was already there. She came in later.
Sometimes I like to hold it in my hand. The weight of it makes me feel like it is an important object. It makes me think of the famous book by William Golding, Lord of the Flies. The children in the book used to have something like this, which was their symbol of power. If they had it in their possession, they could talk. Since I have it at home, I am always free to speak.
I might be wrong about it being empty. To me there is still something living inside; my grandmother who used to tell me to listen to the sea.
When you press it against your ear, you can hear the sea. At least, that is what my grandmother used to tell me when I was younger. I have seen quite some seas and oceans since, but none of them sound like this.
The shape is like a human heart, and it can just fit in my hand. On top of it is a carving of a woman, which is quite badly executed. I have no idea who the woman is; she has a sharp nose, pearls in her ears and a great haircut. Maybe she was a Greek goddess, the butcher’s daughter, or what the carver wished his wife to look like. The ugliness has something appealing in it. The kind of people who collect Swarovski crystal dogs and fake Hummel figurines would love it. The creases are filled with grey dust. It must be at least fifty years old, maybe more.
The bottom is a pink fleshy color, like a plump mouth with sharp teeth. The opening looks like a big animal growling at you. Sometimes I see it as a more sensual image, like the frightening flower vaginas in Pink Floyd’s animations. I like to feel it; it is smooth and curved, but at the same time rough and prickly. A blind man would enjoy the object, because there is so much to feel. Perhaps he would be slightly confused about the carved part on top, which mixes natural shapes with an unnatural human form.
Actually, something used to live in there, way before it got to me. I do not know what it looked like, but it probably had several little legs and a very soft body so it could squeeze in. It used to live on the bottom of the sea, surrounded by sand, shiny fishes and sharks. Sometimes it would hide. The weight would be heavy on its back, but it would be safe because this was his home. Maybe that is where it got its sound, on the bottom of the ocean. But it is now empty, and nobody lives there anymore. I do not think the carved woman was already there. She came in later.
Sometimes I like to hold it in my hand. The weight of it makes me feel like it is an important object. It makes me think of the famous book by William Golding, Lord of the Flies. The children in the book used to have something like this, which was their symbol of power. If they had it in their possession, they could talk. Since I have it at home, I am always free to speak.
I might be wrong about it being empty. To me there is still something living inside; my grandmother who used to tell me to listen to the sea.
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