10 AM on 13 March 2005 in the city centre of Vienna: a few dog owners and one or two jogging and cake-hunting tourists. At the entrance of Secession, a lively group of Swedish students are in waiting, only to have themselves digitalised a few minutes later – in poses that would put pop stars to shame – among dangling coloured ostrich eggs.
The exhibition titled “The Government –Paradisic Spaces of Action” takes as its starting point Michel Foucault’s conceptualisation of government. In Foucault’s interpretation, the government is not a hierarchy of power in which the nature and limits of majority action are determined by powers and individuals who create absolute laws and assume the responsibility of their enforcement. Rather, it is an interactive formula whose participants, through their actions, continuously influence one another.
Curators, Roger M. Buergel and Ruth Noack, define the exhibition as a three-dimensional film, where the weekly changing composition of the show signifies the individual settings and episodes of the film. At the earlier venues of the exhibition, in Lüneburg, Barcelona and Miami, different works were showcased. Furthermore, the collection was presented in various exhibiting situations and with different public programs. The work of the curators follows a dialogic, contextual – in other words, a non-determined, non-linear – logic. It is an intellectual and practical process that develops as a function of the dialogue and exchange of ideas with the actors of the given environment and specific location.
In Vienna, the term “government” refers, first and foremost, to the creation of artwork and to the observation that every work of art is the condensed manifestation of a series of events. In addition, it draws attention to the fact that the reception of art also consists of processes of mutual influence, on the one hand, and brings forth new action, on the other. As students are the ones giving tours at this exhibition, the usual “educator-educated” relationship is reversed, giving open minded young people an opportunity to interpret and explain the displayed pieces from their own (not necessarily departmentalised) standpoint. The situative and periodic organisational principle, as well as the cooperation of the artists, curators and students undoubtedly dynamises the exhibition.
The overall picture that visitors encounter, however, is pronouncedly temperate, the arrangement is sophisticatedly harmonic, almost static. We enter a large, undivided space in which the works are positioned in an airy manner, mostly on, or along, the wall. The components of the space are tied together by Jürgen Stollhans’ chalk-drawn frieze, which implies a traditional left-to-right reading. Some time, patience and a bit of benevolence is needed in order to discover the links between the works – to grasp the sublimated dynamics of the “film.” Ibon Aranberri’s slides, which document the 70s anti-nuclear energy demonstrations of the Basque Country and, thus, the beginnings of Spanish civilian resistance and public protest, are shown directly by the entrance, requiring viewers to begin their perusal by turning their backs to the space. The photos (partly as a result of the analogue medium and its faded colours) evoke a faint sense of nostalgia for the long-passed golden age of interwovenness between a critical public and a committed art. Eduardo Chillida’s emblem, which he designed specifically for the movement, reminds one of the visual education and comprehensive design efforts propagated by the historical avantgarde movements. But how can the documents of the past be linked back to the present of the (now active) exhibition viewer?
This same question may surface in conjunction with Tucumán Arde’s project photos. The name marks the collective campaign of the artists of Rosario and Buenos Aires in protest against the agricultural resolutions passed by the Argentinean government at the end of the 60s and the resulting social problems in the North-Eastern Tucuman territory. As a consequence of police intervention, only a fraction of the document archive has remained intact. In Vienna, these black and white photos are applied onto Stollhans’ frieze. The ephemeral chalk drawing, the photos, which are clipped to the wall, and Andreas Siekmann’s temporarily fixed prints, all allude to the provisional nature of the current compilation.
Stollhans’ work comprises the only permanent portion of the Viennese exhibition, and, to use the curators’ words, it is this piece, which provides a “framework” for, and holds together, the weekly changing compositions. At the same time, the question arises, whether critical commentaries and traces of political action can be placed next to, or on top of, one another. Can a collective action in reaction to a specific social situation, which, both in terms of its means and manifestations, signifies a turning point from the perspective of civil protest, critical report coverage and art be fused together with an artistic position that only has quotations and irony to show for itself as “strong points,” and that, by virtue of its expansiveness, dominates the entire spectacle? The exhibition employs such displacement in a number of instances, which, on the one hand, destabilises – and, if we want: sets in motion – our notions about methods of critical intervention. On the other hand, however, it also makes us uncertain whether we are talking about activism of the civil and the artistic sphere, and its sometimes-explosive spaces of action, or about “symbolic resistance” and “aesthetic critique”? Are we talking about action or commentary?
Ines Doujak’s work,The Leader is comprised of diagonally suspended ships, whose constituents – fibreglass, sheep’s wool, photos and painted ostrich eggs – symbolise the superimposed narrative layers of the piece. Doujak recruited hooligans in order to recount by way of composed photos, Herman Melville’s story about a sailor mutiny by the title of Benito Cereno. The sheep’s wool refers to ritual sacrifice, while, from the bottom of the ships that summarise individual scenes, ostrich eggs hang, depicting various episodes from women’s movements. The complexity of the work in terms of content sets a virtually impossible task for the viewer, not to even mention, that it is also problematic from the standpoint of form. The theatrical air of the men posing for the photographs, the immaculate ship-shaped fibreglass, the wool covering the backsides of the ships and the intricately painted eggs make for a bizarre combined effect. Thus, it is easy for thoughts about power, oppression and gender discrimination to tip over into a “revel in the visual pleasures” of coloured artefacts.
“Weltverbesserungskunst!” (Art That Makes The World a Better Place!) – no one should be fooled by Stollhans’ gigantic, ironic, advertising slogan-like caption either. “The Government” is not a radical show, it does not want to make the walls of the exhibition space crumble or to rock the world. It arranges the pieces with a subtly declarative and amicably enquiring tone. It simultaneously exposes and covers up the work processes, such as in the case of Sanja Ivekovič, who corrects an NGO report about the lot of women in Croatia during the night, in the absence of an audience. It exposes and covers up: the following day, the corrected pages (printed on red sheets of paper) are found crumpled and thrown on the floor. Instead of symbolising the fertile grounds of revolutionary action, the brightly coloured “paper flowers” of Ivekovič’s “Night Shift. Shadow Report” refer to the invisibility and limited effectiveness of examinations and reports.
As Buergel and Noack have, in the past, engaged in exploring the degree of political and social commitment in contemporary culture from a number of angles, both curators are also aware of the economical fundaments of the (art) world. Still, they seek out and present „paradisic spaces of action.” Perhaps, the essence of their work is to be found precisely in this somewhat defiant “yes, but,” which is not an obstinate test of strength, but a different form – and application of – dialogic thinking. One could say that “The Government” is a primary example of the extended exhibition concept: it reflects on the given space, involves the local public, initiates innovative awareness-raising programs, looks for new questions and, in the interest of avoiding attention from the authorities, uses the conditional tense. It offers an open and democratic framework of action, which, in case of its active “use” is, indeed, multifaceted.
Still, there is something unsettling about this paradisic show. Such is, for example, the curators’ tempting invitation in the form of a question: “Does it make sense to take a quick dip in the beauty of political abstraction, let’s say, to the extent of an exhibition?” The arrangement is very elegant and because there are no partition walls, an apparently perfect transparency rules the space. But only apparently, because, in spite of the unifying framework (or perhaps precisely because of it), the intention of the exhibition is made vague. The heterogeneous positions, in some cases, take away from the other’s meaning and strength in this shared display. Real political action is presented only through historical positions, which, instead of inspiring action in the visitor, accomplishes just the opposite: it places the focus of intervention in the past. Furthermore, the traditional artwork showcased here is not open either from the perspective of reception or from the vantage point of artistic intention. The visitors are, in both cases, viewers, and not participants, of the works. As a result of this, the synergic effect the curators were aiming at, whereby visitors, through the act of receiving, become acting subjects, does not manifest itself. Many circle the space, moving along the walls, as if reading notice boards. Ines Doujak’s piece captures the attention of most viewers as a unique aesthetic object. Rainer Oldendorf’s photos illustrating the theme of enlightenment can be characterised as having esoteric beauty. While in Andreas Siekmann’s work, the underlying idea, which originates from Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s fresco depicting good and bad government, is interesting, the exhibited prints are not very impressive. Because the exhibition moves back and forth between the impetus of “Let’s go!” and the intellectual sublimation of “What if?,” it finally collapses back into a state of idleness.
Of course, it is probably a whole different experience to participate in the “film shoot” from one week to the next, and to follow the curators’ publicly displayed train of thought. Perhaps, the show has more meagre and more intensive weeks. In itself, though, on a Sunday morning, the notion of an active community, which is what Roger M. Buergel and Ruth Noack’s exhibition is about, only makes a vague appearance. In the meantime, another film is being played outside.
It is one o’clock in the afternoon, Kunsthalle am Karlsplatz: the exhibition space is still closed, in the club hall a Turkish cleaning woman is removing the remains of the previous night under the supervision of her idle male companion. Meanwhile, the rowdy crowd is now sitting around, accompanied by a DJ in sunglasses, in the musty and cosy space of the coffee house on the left, munching away on their coffee and croissants to the slow beat of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Wonderful: the manifest realisation of the post-gender and postcolonial worldview itself, responsible and critical consumer behaviour, a paradisic space of action. All this would deserve an NGO report. Or an exhibition.