home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME: Almanac 1995
/
TIME Almanac 1995.iso
/
time
/
062893
/
06289920.000
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1994-03-25
|
9KB
|
171 lines
<text id=93TT1969>
<title>
June 28, 1993: Art:A Shambles In Venice
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Jun. 28, 1993 Fatherhood
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS, Page 67
ART
A Shambles In Venice
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By ROBERT HUGHES
</p>
<qt>
<l>EXHIBIT: The Venice Biennale</l>
<l>WHERE: Various Sites In The City</l>
<l>WHAT: Contemporary Work From Around The World</l>
</qt>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: This dull, incoherent survey gives radicalism
a bad name.
</p>
<p> Any way you slice it, the 45th Venice Biennale of contemporary
art, which opened to the public last week, is a failure. The
more interesting parts of it tend to be the peripheral shows--a fine homage to Francis Bacon installed in the 18th century
rooms of the Museo Correr, on St. Mark's Square, and some multimedia
pieces by filmmaker Peter Greenaway and stage designer Robert
Wilson in a section called "Slittamenti," or "Trans-Actions."
But as survey and analysis, this Biennale is quite incoherent
and achieves the near impossible feat of making what still passes
for "radical" creation look even weaker than it actually is.
</p>
<p> The Biennale is the world's oldest modern art festival, dating
back to 1895. Every two years a commissioner is appointed to
oversee its structure and content. This year the task fell to
a Neapolitan art critic named Achille Bonito Oliva. Bonito Oliva
is a mini-celebrity in Italy, an imbonitore, or bustling promoter,
of groups and movements, who gave the '80s its silliest piece
of art jargon, "la transavanguardia," the "trans-avant-garde."
He wanted to create a Biennale that would transcend national
differences and illustrate "cultural nomadism." To put it charitably,
his talents are not up to the task.
</p>
<p> Bonito Oliva's curatorial "method" has been to jumble works
together in the Italian pavilion under the title "The Cardinal
Points of Art." The result is a shambles, featuring the usual
notables from Joseph Beuys to Georg Baselitz, interfused with
less famous figures and a large photography section. Many of
the individual works are worth seeing--or reseeing, since
not a few have been round the international circuit already--but since this is one of the worst-hung shows in recent memory,
it is quite hard to do even that.
</p>
<p> Of the other national pavilions, the best is the American one,
showing sculpture by Louise Bourgeois. Now 81 and at the top
of her form, Bourgeois is the chief heiress of Surrealist obsession
in America. Though her work is sometimes overpraised for feminist
reasons, it carries a deep strand of recollection interwoven
with sexual fantasy and dreams of vengeance, refracted through
strange uses of material. Included in the Venice show are some
of her recent cage sculptures, including Cell (Choisy), a harsh
essay on memory: inside an iron-mesh enclosure is a pink marble
effigy of her childhood home in France, where her parents repaired
Gobelin carpets. It has the enticing glow of a Magritte villa
at dusk, but above the door to the cage, ready to be tripped,
is a guillotine blade. You can't go home again.
</p>
<p> The German pavilion contains a single installation by the political-conceptual
artist Hans Haacke. In the past Haacke has done many a verbose
indictment of capitalist culture, but this time he seems to
have got his epigram down. The first thing you see is a wall
with a blown-up image of Hitler visiting the 1934 Venice Biennale.
The floor of the rest of the gallery has been torn up into a
litter of marble debris, which clatters ominously as visitors
stumble across it. On the wall behind, the single word: GERMANIA.
A one-shot piece, but right on target.
</p>
<p> The main exhibit in the Spanish pavilion is a room-size sculpture,
featuring an oversize bed frame, wire mesh and chairs, by Antoni
Tapies. Tapies 30 years ago was a painter of great distinction,
but on the evidence of this cumbersome and vapid work, he has
no talent for sculpture; he is there because the Spanish fixedly
believe he is the successor to Picasso and Miro--a nationalist
illusion. The British pavilion, which in previous Biennales
walked away with the show--Frank Auerbach, Howard Hodgkin
and the sculptor Tony Cragg--contains a disappointing survey
of recent work by one of the fathers of Pop art, Richard Hamilton,
who split the Golden Lion, or main prize, with Tapies.
</p>
<p> If there were a Leaden Ass award, it would have to be split
between France and Australia. The French pavilion confirms the
ongoing bankruptcy of contemporary art in Paris with a Warhol
clone named Jean-Pierre Raynaud. His bright idea was to imprint
15,500 white ceramic tiles with the same photo of a Neolithic
human skull and cover the walls of the French pavilion with
them. As an exercise in prim, sterile chic, it's unbeatable.
Australia is not short of talent, but the political correctness
of its official cultural life has sent to Venice the whiny postfeminist
images of Jenny Watson. Her paintings (of a victimized self,
plus horses, with braids of hair pinned to the canvas) are comically
ill done. This is the bottom of the barrel; it also links up
with the other main section of the Biennale, known as "Aperto
93" and installed in the old rope factory at the Arsenal.
</p>
<p> If you liked the Whitney Biennial, you may like "Aperto 93."
Some of its 13 curators, like the American Jeffrey Deitch, are
in fact dealers--a further development of Postmodernist art
ethics. Its title, "Emergency," signals that, like the Whitney
fiasco, it will "address the issues" of sexism, racism, environmental
decay, the drainage of psychosocial space from modern life,
the hegemony of mass media and so forth.
</p>
<p> The most noticeable work of art in "Aperto 93" greets you before
you go in; it is a huge mural composed of hundreds of color
photographs of human genitalia, he, she, he, she, ranging widely
in age and size. It scored a palpable hit on the G-spot of the
Italian press, partly because its author, Oliviero Toscani,
does the advertising photos for Benetton. Despite Toscani's
stance as a fearless realist, this Don Giovanni's catalog in
Cibachrome is aesthetically inert, and after five minutes about
as shocking as a mural of human elbows might be. Nevertheless,
it wins (hairs-down, as it were) over Gianfranco Gorgoni's similar
photomural in the Italian pavilion, which shows only women's
genitals.
</p>
<p> There are a few worthwhile things in "Aperto 93." One is The
World Flag Ant Farm, by the Japanese artist Yukinori Yanagi.
Yanagi's conceit, a pretty good one, was to make scores of replicas
of national flags in colored sand, behind Perspex. These are
linked by tubes and populated by a colony of ants, which scurry
to and fro between the flags bearing grains of sand in their
mandibles. Over time the flags become illegible through migration
and mixture; Yanagi's piece has the same concision and elegance
as Haacke's in the German pavilion.
</p>
<p> Otherwise, the "Aperto" is apocalyptic trivia, devoid of aesthetic
impulse. Everything is on much the same dull, hectoring, narcissistic
and politically simpleminded level; all complexity of artistic
response has been ironed down into puerile rhetoric, one-liners
that have no further resonance once you've got their meager
point. Some have no point: How about a nice big wall covered
in monochrome orange carpet, or a giant mound of Plasticine?
The mix of witless conceptualism, pseudo documentary and weakly
recycled minimalism is stifling.
</p>
<p> If one were to choose a single work that summed up the enterprise,
it would be the one by Sean Landers. A video monitor shows a
tape of the artist dropping his pants and going through the
motions of masturbation. Behind it, on the wall, are sheets
of yellow lined legal paper covered with the artist's ruminations:
he set out to write 250 pages during the installation period
of "Aperto." "So today I've still got to press on to page 250.
I just feel so corny here writing like an idiot. Anyway it's
hard to get my head out of the bummer this place is giving me.
Dam it I can't write. I'm too bummed out." Ah, the anguish of
creation! The visitor knows what he means.
</p>
<p> But there is always Venice itself; one can leave the Biennale,
visit the Accademia or St. Zanipolo and find relief from the
stale and mannered exhaustion of the New in the perpetual freshness
and vigor of the Old.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>