notes and notices are short and curt reviews of exhibitions at (mostly) London galleries.
The phrase “conceptual art” is sometimes deployed as a term of defensive derision. Visiting exhibitions that consisted entirely of empty gallery rooms, such as Yves Klein’s 1958 antic, audiences in the second half of the 20th century were legitimately bewildered and annoyed. It took plenty of time and theory, if not Centre Pompidou’s 2009 Voids retrospective of nine such projects, before this particular concept became so old hat that it no longer upsets anyone.
Zhu didn’t have the foresight to leave Chisenhale empty. Instead, he divided the hangar-like gallery into four garishly decorated rooms, thus inducing visitors to slam doors irately as they sigh in the realisation that each space is more “conceptual” than the last. Trying to jump the art-theoretical queue, Zhu produced a whole book of instructions and explanations. “Histories of violence” and “colonial inheritances” dominate its index.
Without such already hackneyed theory, it is unclear what might induce a visitor or a future art historian to buy into these shallow associations of form and narrative. Zhu’s silly playing-card sculpture box and a cutesy bow – the exhibition’s sole objects – are capable of inspiring neither curiosity nor desire. Faced with so little, one longs for an even emptier room.
The risk of working with hot metal is that, like water, it spills away from the mould. Burke’s materials – silver, bronze, and aluminium – which she has worked into arcane ritual objects that one would more readily expect to find in the dimly-lit rooms of ethnographic museums than East London galleries have minds of their own. Some betray their decorative intent without revealing the occasion. Others are miniature charts that would lead the bearer to undisclosed treasure. A couple, resembling musical instruments, invite the staging of a performance whose score was never written.
These forms are exquisite and the little they lack in antique opulence they make up for in austerity. A nod to 17th-century hydromancy in the gallery text already charges the pieces with too much utility, however. Burke’s next demand that they affirm “posthuman feminist phenomenology” fails entirely. This, perversely, only confirms Quicksilver’s independence from artistic thought.
Muenzer’s study of moody teenagers staged in a messy bedroom is so self-referential that one wonders if the artist might ever escape their world himself. His subjects are locked-in kidults hiding from view in bubbles transparent only enough to show off their indignant vexation with the world. The artist poses his heroes ironically on play swings, at the mall, or at the Thanksgiving family dinner that they’re about to ruin for everyone. They relax only when they illicitly sneak into that filthy bed.
All this would be annoying to this middle-aged critic, except this gallery actually is someone’s messy bedroom most nights of the week. Final Hot Desert is a transplant from Utah now seeking its fortunes in Hackney. Muenzer, it turns out, is the West Coast art establishment’s hapless darling. But in this DIY setting, the whole endeavour is so quaint that it’s almost charming. Pity only that an atrocious exhibition essay betrays these kids’ desperate ambition to graduate into adulthood.
Desire breeds introspection. Semi-abstract expanses of ink and detritus make up intricate patterns on Hartley’s compact canvases. Veins of pigment glow on odd-looking stoneware tablets which hang between the pictures. A display of Polaroids whose surfaces erupted in paint and volcanic ash turns the exhibition into a study of itself.
Desire breeds mistrust. Misprinted pages ripped out from old art history books are the show’s unlisted medium. Hartley pulped Cézannes, Monets, and Twomblys into his paint binder, affording his masters a second and a third chance. That a shameless Rothko miniature somehow survived intact in this mix throws the lot into a crisis of authority.
A pair of houseflies caught in the sticky mess of a trap live out their last moments in serenade and coitus. The end, or is it? This is the kind of story one would like to be ‘deceptively’ simple in the hope of uncovering its trick. Kar’s animated film loops and the desperate rite misses a finale. Dirt, death, and procreation, again and once more, forever.
The installation relies entirely on a display gimmick. If these few frames hold some profound truth, this exhibition overplays its importance. Whatever insight Kar offers into a fly’s life – or, to have it his way, the whole universe – is aesthetically intriguing but fleeting.
The challenge of curating a retrospective of a career as rich as Kelley’s is to build a narrative that both lay audiences and art historians can believe. Wood packs the show and pleases neither fully.
It’s remarkable that any artist’s art school experiments would find home in the museum. Kelley’s 1970s high conceptualism does set the scene but takes some serious nous to be useful. His later turn to popular culture and historical construction thus feels detached from itself. The 90s’ Half a Man cycle, by contrast, brims with foresight. Kelley’s candid critique of the kidult/manchild culture (he satirises himself as a proud “pants shitter”) is remarkable next to his assault of the institution and the odd bout of political sloganeering.
But this is only the half of it. The show continues with sculpture, photography, and video installed so densely (or immersively) that they turn into cacophony. Kelley’s latter works restage high-school rituals and turn the museum into the gym hall. It is difficult to know where one piece ends and the next begins in this architecture. The art historian would know if such overload was the artist’s intended method. The layman will leave with a headache.
A floating double helix assembled from readymade steel staircase modules is the crowning centrepiece of O’Brien’s Frieze prize exhibition. These weighty sculptures hang in the air adorned with chrome balls. The spirals hide behind comically giant, loose-knitted stockings stretched over the forms’ voids. Hundreds of acrylic panels frost the gallery’s windows nearby, as though to form a horizon.
This is intriguing by scale and slightly odd in composition, but the effect is hardly worth a prizegiving ceremony. There is no discernible rationale for O’Brien’s materials to have come together so and no narrative emerges from the tonnes of steel and plastic his work consumed. Next door, the artist hastily installed a bunch of steel traffic bollards in glass display cabinets salvaged from a 1970s department store. Why is anyone’s guess: the work entirely fails to account for itself. Its only redeeming feature is that despite their simplicity, these smaller structures are somehow more disappointing than the steel DNA hanging.
It would take a visitor unfamiliar with Raven Row’s fetish for the 1970s until the heat death of the universe to understand what this exhibition is for. It assembles dozens of supposedly anti-temporal works that barely share a time zone, let alone partisan concerns, folding them into the present as though that could do some magic. Falhström’s 50-year-old study of globalism thus sits next to a strand of ‘mental health’ works by Podolski and Daučíková. An unimpressive archive of transhumanism dug up by Knauf has little echo. Next, some solidarity banners stitched by Zapatera Negra and a climate change corner with bits of glass by Schmidt.
The exhibition guide calls all this “radical”: if time were a social construct, things might have well been different. Proving the subjunctive useless, however, the gallery’s time-capsule top-floor flat hosts an exhibition-in-exhibition called “How to Eat a Rolex”. It may have been a good joke but it’s just too exhausting to look at.
The curator seems unfatigued. The show’s time-blindness peaks in Agirregoikoa’s idiotic pencil animation which poses Swan Lake as a Nazi anthem. This is “how culture is turned into an ideology”. Good to know that’s settled.
The Imaginary Institution of India
★★★★★Barbican, LondonCurated by Shanay JhaveriOn until 5 January 2025How does a curator tell an unfamiliar history yet evade the museum’ didacticism and the audience’s dulled expectations? Jhaveri’s ambitious review of India’s testing decades at the end of the 20th century could easily have been a torturous sermon: the period’s Wikipedia entry is full of social tension, abuses of power, even civil unrest. The absence of wordy labels in the gallery, then, is radically generous. The exhibition’s 50 paintings and the odd installation put forth their aesthetic narratives without competition.
Even unfamiliar with the events, one gets the sense of their near-Biblical magnitude. The political anxiety of Rameshwar Broota’s satirical Reconstruction gives way to the growth caught in Sudhir Patwardhan’s city-building vistas. Social transformations give rise to dream sequences in Nilima Sheikh oils and temperas. Pablo Bartholomew’s record of the Union Carbide disaster tickles the Western consciousness, as do Sunil Gupta’s gay liberation slogan-photographs.
Forms from the 1990s like Sheela Gowda’s clay assemblies feel more familiar still, but Jhaveri avoids the internationalised Indian art market’s greatest hits. Patwardhan now turns to rural desolation, while Jitish Kallat cryptically codes Mumbai’s political agitation. Nalini Malani’s nuclear anxiety video room finally breaks the end-of-history timeline, prompting a second look with the exhibition guidebook in hand.
This exhibition’s three shows in one. Surveillance, reconstruction, demolition: the canvases trace a dystopian life cycle. It’s not immediately clear where one ends and the next begins, however, because Hempton’s thick brushstrokes hit the surfaces with a studied, low-information impasto. Building sites, traffic webcams, and a surgeon’s POV live-stream (!) mix in a mess of severed arteries.
Confusion is Hempton’s favourite trick. The panels play scale, time, and location but even the odd landscape in this show of odd-ones-out brings no conclusion to this winding storyline. Sense finally returns only outside the gallery, as does longing for the unruly canvasses’ promise.
Inspired in form and attitude by Manhattan Art Review.
