Erling Klingenberg í Marshallhúsinu

Erling Klingenberg í Marshallhúsinu

Erling Klingenberg í Marshallhúsinu

Yfirlitssýningin Erling T.V. Klingenberg er nú til sýnis í Marshallhúsinu. Hún inniheldur verk frá síðastliðnum 25 árum af ferli Erlings. Erling er einn stofnandi gallerísins Kling & Bang sem nú er í Marshallhúsinu og hefur verið virkur þátttakandi í listasenunni á Íslandi sem og erlendis í þau ár sem tímabil sýningarinnar gefur til kynna.

Í verkum sínum og á hinum mismunandi tímabilum sem sýningin spannar tekst Erling á við hin ýmsu þemu. Eitt af þemum sýningarinnar er sjálfskoðun þess að vera listamaður og samhengi listamannsins. Í því þema birtast mér ýmsar skírskotanir til sálgreiningar og karlmennskunnar í hreinni mynd, út frá sjálfi Erlings.

Í mörgum verkunum, ef ekki öllum, tekst Erling á við sjálfsskoðun í gegnum húmor, einlægni og kaldhæðni. Kaldhæðnin spilar sterkan sess í einlægri sjálfshæðni sem virkar vel og er fyndin í verkunum. Til að mynda er það sterkt í verkum Erlings að bendla sjálfan sig við aðra listamenn, bræða sér jafnvel saman við þá eins og sjá má í verkinu á myndinni hér að ofan. Í því er Erling búinn að steypa/blanda andlitu sínu saman við andlit annarra listamanna og fólks innan listasenunar sem hann lítur upp til. Þar af leiðandi kemst hann nær þeim, máir út skilin á milli sín og þeirra – verður þau. Sjálfsmyndin er þannig þanin út fyrir hann sjálfan og er það auðvitað drepfyndið.

Í sama rými er Erling búin að setja upp borð með munum eftir ýmsa fræga listamenn. Rannsókn á myndlistarmönnum. Einskonar safngripum sem hann hefur gripið með sér og safnað að sér í gegnum tíðina, þar eru hlutir sem listamenn hafa snert eða átt, til dæmis vínglas sem Jeff Koons drakk úr og sokkur sem Ragnar Kjartanson átti einhvern tímann. Yfir því tróna myndir af Erlingi sjálfum og lítið rautt skilti stafar Erling Klingenberg. Bendlunin er algjör. „Sjáðu hvað ég hef hitt marga fræga listamenn og það gerir mig milliliðalaust meira frægan sjálfur,“ virðist verkið segja. Á meðan er staðsett til hliðar við borðið myndband af fólki sem allt segir nafn hans „Erling Klingenberg“ og má líta á sem einskonar tilraun til að staðfesta tengingu hlutana við hann sjálfan í undirmeðvitundinni. Það er ekki hægt að skoða hlutina án þess að hugsa um Erling Klingenberg enda myndi það ganga gegn tilgangi verksins.

Útþennsla sjálfsmyndarinnarinnar og afmörkun hennar birtist því sem þema í báðum verkunum, hver er ég án tenginar eða samanburðar við aðra? Virðist listmaðurinn spyrja. Hver er listamaðurinn án samhengis? Og er mögulegt að skapa þetta samhengi sjálfur? Í gegnum eitthvað eins ómerkilegt og sokk? Án þess samanburðar sem er eða virðist oft vera órjúfanlegur hluti túlkunar á list?

Andstætt þessu verki hanga andlitsgrímur af honum sjálfum sem upphaflega þjónuðu þeim tilgangi að vera fyrir sýningargesti til þess að þau gætu orðið hann sjálfur. Eins konar speglun á sér stað í verkunum, hann speglar sig og myndar úr sér mót af sjálfum sér. Endurskapar sjálfan úr vaxi, Tvífarinn, og nær þannig að búa til sjálfan sig út fyrir sig sjálfan, skoðaðan frá grímum, afmyndunum af honum sjálfum. Þetta minnir óneitanlega á hugmynd Lacans um The Mirror Stage þar sem sjálfsmyndin tekst á við að vera eitthvað til á öðrum stað í rýminu, innan spegilsins og fer að rýna í þennan dualisma. Hér er ég í líkama mínum og þarna sé ég mig í speglinum. Manneskjan verður tvöföld og áhuginn beinist út fyrir okkur sjálf til að líkamsmyndin okkar verði hluti af sjálfskilningi okkar og skoðun.

Verkin eru pöruð á Nýlistasafninu með rauðum vegg sem inniheldur gylltum ramma með silfurlitum striga sem ber nafnið Föstudagurinn langi. Ómögulegt er að spegla sig í verkinu en það er jafnframt ekki hægt að segja að verkið eigi að vera spegill. Spegillinn getur verið falinn í hverju sem er, en það er ekki hægt að spegla sig í hverju sem er.

Tvíhyggja spegilmyndarinnar á sjálfsmynd og líkama má einnig sjá í It‘s hard to be an Artist in a Rockstar Body þar sem sjálfmynd listamannsins sem listamaður skoðar sjálfan sig út frá líkama sínum sem rokkstjarna. Þar sem þessi tvö element eru rist í sundur og sjálfsmyndin passar ekki endilega við það sem birtist í speglinum sjálfum – Rokkstjarnan sem við þráum öll að einhverju leyti að vera.

 

Bendlunin heldur áfram í annarri mynd í Kling & Bang en þar sprettur svipað þema upp í verkinu Ég sýni ekkert í nýju samhengi sem er endurmynd af annarri sýningu, eftir aðra listamenn, sem hefur átt sér stað á öðrum stað í öðru rými. Nú á öðrum tíma í Kling & Bang. Skopstæling uppsetningarinnar felur þannig í sér einhversskonar grín að listinni og listheiminum en einnig honum sjálfum. Hver er frumleikinn? Enginn og þannig á það að vera. Það sem frumlegt er, er ekki til heldur eingöngu þversögn eða tálsýn.

Líkamleikinn fær svo meira pláss í sýningarrými Kling & Bang svo sem, Skúlptúr fyrir skapahár, Kóngur, Grafið og Skapa-sköpum, hafa það sameiginlegt að vera alveg gríðarlega fallísk.  Áhorfandi setur sig inn í hugarheim og sköpunarverk Erlings Klingenbergs og heim hans sem karlmaður og hann ræðir sínar fallísku upplifanir opinskátt með öðrum karlmönnum. Karlmennskan nær þannig ákveðinni hæð í sýningunni sem getur verið stuðandi. Yfirtaka á rýminu er hluti af því karlmannlega, því hugvitslega (sýningarskráin) og innan listsköpunarinnar sjálfrar. Á hinn boginn má sjá hana frá því sjónarhorni að hún er opið boð til þess að skoða hin fallíska sköpunarheim Erlings Klingenbergs. Því hann er jú með fallus og er mótaður af sinni upplifun sem karlmaður í umhverfi sem er oftar en ekki mjög karlmiðað.

 

Eina tilraunin sem gerð er til að breiða yfir þetta fallíska sjónarhorn má finna í inngangi sýningarskránnar sem skrifaður er af Dorothee Kirch þar sem hún segir: „Ég er ekki hrifin af sjarmerandi karlkyns listamanninum […]  þessum sem virðast greiða yfir ýmislegt með yfirþyrmandi narsissískum persónuleika og áorka hluti með því að vera mjög sjarmerandi og mjög karlkyns og alltof of oft mjög óviðkunnalegir. … Þá er Erling það einfaldlega ekki.“ Inngangurinn er til að mynda eini texti sýningarskránnar sem skrifaður er af konu en samanstendur af ellefu textum eftir menn sem hafa misjafnar tengingar við listamanninn. Þrátt fyrir að Erling sé viðkunnalegur, að sögn Dorothee, þá segir það ekki allt sem segja má um þetta fullkomna pulsupartý sem sýningarskráin er (en hefði ekki þurft að vera). Hver og einn áhorfandi/lesandi verður þar af leiðandi að dæma fyrir sig hvað þeim finnst um sýninguna sjálfa, sjálfskoðun listamannsins og karlmennskuna sem birtist í henni, óháð því hvernig persónuleiki Erlings sé.

Á köflum er sýningarskráin  alvarleg, tekur sér alvarlega, mögulega of alvarlega. Þó eru textarnir marvíslegir (eins og verkin) og stundum er hún er full af sjálfsháði, nákvæmlega eins og sýningin er sjálf. Sýningin er einlæg háði sínu á karlmennskunni. Nær ákveðnum tón af kaldhæðni í garð þessarar sömu karlmennsku sem virkar og er fyndin. Húmorinn er greinilega það sem Erling beitir í sköpun sinni og finna má í yfirbragði sýningarinnar sjálfrar. Það nægir þó ekki að fela sig bakvið húmor og kaldhæðni. En sýningin gerir það ekki og gerir það samt á sama tíma – hún er tvíhliða. Tekur sér stöðu beggja vegna  kaldhæðni og alvara. Sýningin er einlæg í karlmennskunni jafnvel það einlæg í henni að hún er berskjölduð og þolir því umræðu um þessa sömu karlmennsku sem í henni birtist.

Tvinna má saman þau tvö þemu sem ég hef rætt hingað til og leyft þeim að tala saman. Í heildina er sýningin samtal um sjálfsímynd, útþennslu sjálfmyndarinnar, spegilsins og sjálf Erlings Klingenbergs sem listamanns í ákveðnu menningarrými og tímabili. Karlmennska er því óneitanlegur hluti af þessari sjálfsmynd og veru hans í listheiminum. Hún getur virkað sem spegill listamannsins við hið víðara samhengi sem samfélagið okkar býr og þrífst í.

 

Eva Lín Vilhjálmsdóttir 

Photo credits: Vigfús Birgisson

Museums in the time of CoronaVirus – A Conversation Around Digital Efforts

Museums in the time of CoronaVirus – A Conversation Around Digital Efforts

Museums in the time of CoronaVirus – A Conversation Around Digital Efforts

The rise of Covid19 and the government imposed social gathering ban has taken its toll across all cultural platforms of consumption in Iceland, not least of all on the arts. Many museums like Hafnarborg, Gerðarsafn, Listasafn Árnesinga, and Nýlistasafnið, to name a few, have had to temporarily close their doors while our country comes to grips with this health crisis. The Icelandic art scene is a small but flourishing one, but one of course, like all others across the globe, which is dependent on social interaction.

How have art institutions been dealing with these imposed regulations and closures? Hafnarborg was forced to cancel or postpone all concerts and guided tours, and have rescheduled their DesignMarch exhibition until June. Gerðarsafn has postponed two exhibitions until the summer as well. Thankfully, having to temporarily close their doors won’t have massive repercussions on most museum programming, as Kristín Scheving at Listasafn Árnesinga explains: “as all museums in Iceland we needed to close the doors to the public but that didn’t really stop our programming, we just had to postpone some events and move some to the internet. As this situation will come to an end, it won’t change anything for us in the long-run.” This alienating time has then opened up possibilities for museums to take on important projects that have been on the back burner. At LÁ Kristín tells me they have been using the time for renovations, “We have been using this time usefully, with fixing interior issues for example: building walls, painting walls, installing a new major AC system with a dehumidification system which would have been hard during open times.” Nýló, Listasafn Árnessinga, and Gerðarsafn have all increased their use of social media and are thinking of ways to be more digitally visible. In this way museums have been making the most out of an unideal situation and creating something positive out of uncertainty.

Hafnarborg has used the extra time to create digital material that can be experienced online, for example sharing a concert recording of Jennifer Torrence performing Tom Johnson’s Nine Bells. Ágústa Kristófersdóttir, the museum’s director, explains that they signed a contract with Myndstef “which has been in preparation for some time now and allows the museum to share images of the collection through the online database Sarpur (www.sarpur.is). Then we are also producing short videos with guided tours of the exhibitions, as well as music performances – since our music program is a very important part of our work.”

At Gerðarsafn, director Jóna Hlíf Halldórsdóttir and her team have created an exciting live streaming project with the Culture Houses of Kópavogur (Menningarhúsin) and the newspaper Stundin called Culture at 13/Kúltur klukkan 13. “We have asked Einar Falur Ingólfsson and Halla Oddny Magnúsdóttir to discuss the exhibition ‘Afrit’ (e. Imprint), and then we got three artists to talk about creative projects for families, which we call Gerðarstundin (e. ‘Gerður’s Workshop’). The artists introduce fun and interesting ideas that children and grownups can create from simple and easily accessible materials at home. All the events can be seen through the Facebook pages of the Culture Houses and Gerðarsafn.”

Courtesy of Hafnarborg.

Gerðarstundin (e. ‘Gerður’s Workshop’). Courtesy of Gerðarsafn.

Courtesy of Hafnarborg.

In considering potential economic repercussions, for Hafnarborg at least Ágústa explains that the museum is run by the municipality of Hafnarfjörður and only a small percentage of resources come from other sources of income: “aside from our more apparent activities, collection and preservation are an important part of our roles, which we have chosen to focus on during this crisis – a part that quite often gets put aside due to the hectic schedule around events and exhibitions.” Similarly at Gerðarsafn, crowd control measures will not have major impacts on the museum in the long run, as Jóna Hlíf tells me: “Of course this unsettles our exhibition program and affects our artists and technicians. I think this is a challenge, but we are in a favourable position as we are not all-dependent on income from tickets or visitors.”

In this vein, at a time of such global distress and panic, it is easy to question why we should even be worrying about art and culture when the global perspective requires much more dire attention. Why is art still important, relevant even, in times of global crisis where more urgent matters seem to take the forefront? As Dorothee Kirch at Nýlistasafnið says “art is food for the brain and heart. It will always be important and relevant.” Art has the potential to “release people from the constraints of fear, oppression and prejudice”, as Jóna Hlíf explains: “as a mirror for society, as an influencer and as the critic’s voice. Art is by its own nature indestructible and unbreakable, yet at the same time constructive for the mind and the soul.” Kristín relevantly points to the important healing possibilities within art as well, particularly in a time like this: “It can help you reflect on the situation, it can move you and it can teach you.” Art is perhaps especially important precisely in such a moment of global uncertainty – as Ágústa mentions, “Art can make us see the world and ourselves through a different lens and when, if not now, isn’t that necessary?”

The increased virtual presence of museums in these times does however in a way function as a “band aid” solution for our current situation, as Dorothee comments: “I am happy to wait until the pandemic is over to enjoy an exhibition with all my senses again. For me, the virtual platforms will never replace the real bodily experience of an artwork or exhibition, no matter what medium. It has too much to do with our perception of our surroundings in relation to our body. No virtual platform can create that. I believe that Art is a reflection on how we stand in the world, but to experience it we, well, have literally to stand in the world… not look into a window…” Of course nothing can replace an in person visit to a museum, but like Kristín at LÁ points to, “I think (digital efforts are) a wonderful way to reach those who can’t come here. Not only during these times, I have been talking with artists who are making a project with inmates in Litla Hraun (a prison in the county), which I am very interested in collaborating with them in. A virtual tour of an exhibition for someone who can’t come here could be a really interesting way to reach out. Also to people who are in hospitals and so on, children who live far away from the museum etc.” Jóna Hlíf also comments on the importance of the physical museum space in itself. “Museums are not just places to experience art, but also places to come and meet other people, enjoy and create. Gerðarsafn is a venue for active discussion and powerful collaborations and we seek to connect to our guests in new ways, to deepen the discourse, interest and understanding of art and culture. Museums are places to pause and to be with others, for contemplation and fulfilment and for channelling provocative and/or challenging ideas.”

In this way, although we cannot fundamentally experience art in the same way through a computer screen, some positive implications to our current situation can be gleamed. Ágústa says that the current closures “have really helped us gain confidence in that (digital) matter and take more active steps in that direction. Of course, it will not replace the real thing, but it is a very welcome addition, I believe. Like many others, we have thought about branching out in this way before, increasing our visibility on social media, but such ideas or projects often get put aside in favor of the day-to-day schedule.” Similarly, the Culture at 13 programming at Gerðarsafn is something Jona Hlíf plans on utilising in the future; “It is both a great way to access art by those who do not have a chance to go to museums, or are forced to stay away because of sickness or distance. Also, this can become an important archive for the museum and the artists.” These virtual efforts raise interesting debates for how our society may permanently change after the Coronavirus, with regards to how we experience culture. Perhaps post virus we will see a society that is more and more characterized by virtual art experiences and online platforms. How can we continue to support our favorite producers, exhibitors, creators of art in such uncertain times? Visit Gerðarsafn after the crowd controls are lifted, “and even invest in an ‘árskort’ (e. annual ticket) to the museum. We will have a need for meeting, seeing something new, living, creating and enjoying again.” At Nýlistasafnið, Dorothee suggests becoming members or “Friends of Nýló” through their support program, or buying Christmas and birthday presents in their museum shop. Kristín similarly asks the public to be supportive of Listasafn Árnesinga on social media, “keep on reading and learning about things. Use the internet in a positive way. Learn things!” Ágústa recommends supporting Hafnarborg by watching “the content we are creating, ‘like comment and share’ with family or friends. This is a time when we all must find new ways of establishing connections with each other, both as individuals and institutions.”

 

Daría Sól Andrews

 

Gerðarsafn: https://gerdarsafn.kopavogur.is/

Hafnarborg: https://hafnarborg.is/

Listasafn Árnesinga: http://www.listasafnarnesinga.is/list/

Nýlistasafnið: http://www.nylo.is/en/

Artefacts from the restless art’s excavations

Artefacts from the restless art’s excavations

Artefacts from the restless art’s excavations

History occurs in a space between the archive and life,

between the past that is being collected and reality,

understood as everything that has not been collected.[1]

 

Today the Living Art Museum – Nýlistasafnið as well known as Nýló publishes and makes available to the public its performance archive. By digitalising the objects left from the performances of different artists, whether it is a proper documentation material or a crumpled note left on the floor – they invite the public to peek into their records of art “that refuses to settle”.

One of the most prevalent arguments about archives and their political legacy is based on the dichotomy of inclusion vs. exclusion. The criteria on which something is to be chosen to memorise are always a starting point of criticism. The contemporary archive of whatever nature today is criticised on the basis of representation, since by the process of choosing what to be represented – the institution is cementing a certain historical narrative. Nýló’s Performance Archive, is however in its core somewhat different from a collection based on a clear methodology of choice – it is a celebration of randomness and fellowship, that lacks any scholarly coherence. In the same time, paraphrasing one of Sol LeWitt sentences on conceptual art – the archive follows its irrational nature absolutely and logically.[2] Not a scholastic collection, rather an incomprehensible artwork, put together by artists, museum caretakers and fellow travellers, created by chance, contingency and a devotion to taking care of ephemeral matters of performing arts and preservation of memories.

 

The past is not “memory” but the archive itself, something that is factually present in reality.[3]

 

The Archive was founded in 2008 by the board of the museum. Since its foundation, some of the materials have merely been stored, but un-archived in Nýló, while others have been brought by artists to the museum.

The collection of boxes, each bearing the name of a particular artist that has made a performance in Iceland (or elsewhere), in association with Nýló (or not) present artefacts left from a particular event or a context surrounding a certain occasion. If perceived as an archaeological collection, the viewer can look at it with the same eye, as one would look at drawers with ancient ceramic bits, tools and incomplete jewels remains small witnesses of craftsmanship of the past.

Content of Sigríður Guðjónsdóttir’s box. Photo by Ida Brottman Hansen.

These objects are traces left of something that aimed to be a “disruption” of public experience, and they certainly “disrupt” the expectation of the ”archive”. No selecting, no curating, no arranging, no connecting, but a whole lot of collecting is employed as an archival tool in this work. Neither the representation of a certain taste – an attitude of the 19th-century collection, nor a modern historical museum’s attempt to represent contemporary diversity, it is a provision of care of what is left or being given. Instead of a figure of a gatekeeper typically occurring in the conversation about archives, we meet a caregiver taking care of any type of memory given.

The artefacts and documentations are left in 60 separate boxes named after Icelandic and international artists such as Ásta Ólafsdóttir, Ásdís Sif Gunnarsdóttir, Bryndís Hrönn Ragnarsdóttir & Clare Charnley, Sjón, Ragnar Kjartansson, Nam June Paik, Myriam Bat-Yosef, OXSMÁ, Bruni BB, Halldór Ásgeirsson, Hannes Lárusson, Karlotta Blöndal and many others. Viewers are invited to glance at the content of the boxes – photographs and scans of the objects. There are two elements of the archive: a lineage of occurrence of historical events and the collection of artefacts of an archaeological type. Typically, the two narratives operate simultaneously and independently, but in this case, the second dominates the other. 

Content of Bjargey Ólafsdóttir box. Photo by Ida Brottman Hansen. 

Artefact from Hannes Lárusson’s box.

“Something moving around slowly wrapped in a white cloth, maybe a sick train conductor”, says on an old yellow page with a small sketch of “something obvious” found in Ásta Ólafsdóttir box together with a cassette tape named “Ásta Ólafsdóttir songs”. Neatly stored in plastic files, images portraying Bjargey Ólafsdóttir horses, playing unicorns with glasses of sparkling wine. A black and white photograph of a man in a soaking wet costume with a bow and white gloves leaving the seaside in Lars Emil Árnason’s box. A letter that shouldn’t be open by anyone but the museum’s current collection manager in case there is no way to play an audio file by Örn Alexander Amundson. A photograph, a postcard with greetings sent to the Reykjavik Art Festival by Ragnar Kjartansson in conjunction with his performance “The Great Unrest” – “The three weeks performance done in the abandoned theatre/dancehall Dagsbrún”. Scribbles and notes – “references about and after performance at NYLO”, a lady’s magazine cover FRUIN from 1963, which backside asks the readers if they have children as well as telling the names of participants of the performance “The Beginning of the Country Band – The Funerals”.

Artefact from Ragnar Kjartansson’s box.

In the box named after Nam June Paik the visitor finds newspaper clippings from the magazine Fálkinn from 1965, connecting us to the story described by Joan Rothfuss in his book Topless Cellist: The Improbable Life of Charlotte Moorman. This incredible story is about the difficult life of the composer association Musica Nova, stuck between the irrepressible movement of Fluxus and the all so decent Icelandic public. The artist Dieter Roth, living in Reykjavik connected his friend Nam June Paik with Musica Nova, an association of composers and musicians, whose main goal was to introduce modern music to the Icelandic public. The association invited Nam June Paik together with cellist Charlotte Moorman, and arranged a concert in Reykjavik, throughout which the following were shown and played in different inventive ways: striptease, water barrels, shaving cream, pistols, dropped pants and so on. As a result of the memorable evening, Musica Nova was denounced and felt compelled to publish an open apology calling the concert „an unforeseeable accident.“[4] 

Fálkinn magazine page from Nam June Paik’s box.

Another hidden gem of this collaborative collage of beauty and the absurd, is placed in a box named “Recordings of performance evenings”, which is a collection of video documentation of a performance evening that took place in Nýló. On the taped-over VHS cassette through the glitches and noise, follows one after another: a naked golden man walking a dead fish around the gallery, three men in black twirling wrists of their right hands in a synchronized manner, a person driving an imaginary car in the light of a projector, and two artists asking one another “why do you make your art here in the most poor country of art in the world?”. The recording ends with darkness, and through smudged visuals of a 1979 screening by The Icelandic National Broadcasting Service, emerge the quarrelling characters of the soap opera “Dallas.” This unintended relation, the small accident of the taped-over VHS, creates a very specific sequence, where the proximity of the cultural extremes on one tape, is both absurd and typical to Icelandic contemporary art throughout its history.

Photograph of VHS with „Recordings of performance evenings“.

The equation of the mundane and the sublime, significant and vulgar could give it a status of exceptionally democratic art – which ironically stands untouched by the major political trends going through today’s European art striving for democracy. Those trends are vividly present in the rest of Scandinavia, shaped by the current form of identity politics and distinguished by missionary didacticism, trapped in its ambition to create great social change or represent a political critique of the strong partisan kind.

Whether in opposition to them or in oblivion, many artists in Iceland instead take on a different role: that of a holy fool, elevating the trivial, the boring and the unbearable, transforming them into beautiful sights full of consolation, where irony is a prerequisite for the magic beam to work. The Performance Archive, just as some of other NYLO’s projects are no exception. It escapes both academic formalism and the obscure context of the discourse of International Art English[5], it is instead telling us magically unexpected stories by picking on the seemingly small and unimportant, freely roaming on the grazing lands of the past.

 

Maria Safronova Wahlström

 

[1] Sven Spieker, Boris Groys: The Logic of Collecting, ARTMargins, January 1999,

https://artmargins.com/boris-groys-the-logic-of-collecting/)

[2] Sol Lewitt, Sentences on Conceptual Art, Art-Language England, Vol.1, May 1969, p.11

[3] Sven Spieker, Boris Groys: The Logic of Collecting, ARTMargins, January 1999,

https://artmargins.com/boris-groys-the-logic-of-collecting/

[4]  Joan Rothfuss, Topless Cellist: The Improbable Life of Charlotte Moorman, MIT Press, Cambridge Massachusets, 2014, p.121

[5] Alix Rule and David Levine, “International Art English”, Triple Canopy,

https://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/contents/international_art_english

 

Cover Picture: Content of Halldór Ásgeirsson’s box. Photo by Ida Brottman Hansen.

 

Nýlistasafnið’s archive can be seen here: http://www.nylo.is/collection/gjorningaarkif/
 

Not with a shout, but with a small cough.

Not with a shout, but with a small cough.

Not with a shout, but with a small cough.

Step into Arna Óttarsdóttir’s solo show Allt Fínt (Everything is Great) and be enveloped by an overwhelming warmth of pinks and oranges and plush texture. The exhibition features mixed media works, which range from woven tapestries to patchwork wall hangings to sculptures of different materials, giving the impression of fragments of a home excised and rearranged in a gallery.

Innkaupalisti (Shopping List) is just that, a shopping list presumably written first on a scrap of paper and then blown up and turned into a weaving that hangs from the ceiling. It’s simple enough, a list of items down the left side, including milk, celery root, lamb, pizza, and an absent minded doodle at the top, as if scribbled while on a long phone call and needing an outlet for restless hands. That’s it, just a hasty scrap of paper reproduced laboriously into an object that declares itself with a tasselled flourish. The genuineness allows me to sink into the reality of it, imagining what was for dinner that night. Are the carrots and celery root to go with the lamb? Is this for a dinner party, or a simple family meal? Certainly not just a meal for one. I begin to imagine the morning routine, perhaps breakfast is AB mjólk and muesli every day, and the house has run out of AB mjólk. Or is there a baby in the house and that’s what it eats? Is the doodle actually an automatic drawing made by an adult, or a child’s intentional step towards self expression? The writing of Lydia Davis comes to mind, micro stories using brevity to such a degree that Davis creates entire narratives in stories that are only one or two sentences. This throw away object transformed into a tapestry has not changed in its meaning, but the transformation does reframe its value from utility into an entryway to meditation on routine, consumerism, self care, or any place the viewer cares to go when imagining all the context surrounding the artefact of this one shopping list.

Sápur (Soaps) is likewise engaging, 18 apparently handmade soaps arranged in an approximate grid on a table (itself composed of numerous folded white cloths like so much fresh laundry). Each soap is presented on a different plinth, a shoulder pad, a piece of hrökkbrauð, an overturned tupperware box, the plastic net that comes around a bottle of duty free wine, and more. Each soap is different, some translucent, some opaque, each embedded with various materials and items, from neon plastic netting to bundles of strings, to glitter and dried flowers, and most intriguingly, dried noodles.

Though there is a definite air of cleanliness and tidying present in the overall arrangement, these soaps are not for cleaning or sudsing. They become less functional items created and used for a task (cleaning) and more something else. What are they? Gems? Insects trapped in amber? Time capsules? A small and orderly sculpture garden? What is the relationship between soap and plinth? And why are these specific items all here together? They’re compiled of things you’d find while cleaning underneath the couch, or in a junk drawer, yet here they all are, arranged in their own specific places.

As I walk from piece to piece, I begin to have the thought “What is the point of this?”. I’ve been enjoying the intro and outrospection from some of the works, and certainly feel physically good in a room full of pink and orange and natural light. But why is this here? Visitors come in, look around for three minutes before leaving, and I imagine them thinking one of two things, either, “This stuff is nice, but who has time for this? The world is burning and I am supposed to lose myself in a landscape of dried flowers? And spend more than five seconds looking at an old grocery list? Everything is great? No, it is not.” or, “Oooh, these soaps are just darling, they’d make a fun Christmas gift.” I think about self indulgence in fine art, questioning what it means to make things that are pretty, to make things that are useless, that drive no change in the world.

But as I watch other people watching, I think that maybe we are all missing the point. The title of the show, Everything is Great, is so tongue in cheek. It’s the response to when someone asks you how things are going, and you don’t want to get into how things aren’t actually going great, but that’s not a socially acceptable response, so you just say, “Everything’s fine.” This work is well aware how the world is garbage, but it’s not so preoccupied with the worry that every effort and work must have a clear purpose of bettering the world in order to be of worth. Another clue comes from a textile collage titled Bleik klippimynd (Hvað get ég svo sem gert?) or Pink Collage (What Can I Do Anyway?). It’s got that question on there, and that becomes the thought pervading the entire show. It’s not despair, but rather permission to lose oneself, if only for a few moments, in a miniature world of soap sculptures, pondering why they are arranged the way they are, or to imagine the life of the person who wrote that shopping list.

Every piece in Allt Fínt has such delicious color and texture that the overall effect is like biting into a cold and refreshing fruit on an unusually warm spring day. Taken all together, the collected works are scraps gathered from around the home and re-presented as textile collages, textures draped over forms, swatches and samples, sketches and notes for later. These pieces are inconsequential things repurposed to demand thought, that expect consequence, not with a shout but with a small cough.

Rebecca Lord


Photo credits: Vigfús Birgisson

Allt Fínt / Everything is Great is on view at Nýlistasafnið until Sunday the 28th of April.

 

The Scale of It All

The Scale of It All

The Scale of It All

From screensaver screenshots taken in 2007 by Katrín Agnes Klar to pen plotter drawings on engravings from Baroque 1730 publications by Lukas Kindermann in 2018, Distant Matter, now on view at The Living Art Museum, takes that which is remote and brings it under close inspection.

The artists’ first exhibition together on this scale since meeting at the Karlsruhe University of Arts and Design/ZKM ten years ago is vast in its breadth of subject matter and material discourse. It is seemingly difficult to break into, as though your body were being asked to negotiate between the vast scales and ratios having a dialogue within the space. Am I infinitely small or infinitely large? Does that meteorite (1:1, 2016, Lukas Kindermann), 3D printed based on data gathered from NASA and lying on the floor, exist just as much in this exhibition as it does on Mars? Does a 3D print make the object a hyper-real version of itself, etched layer by layer out of silica sand and epoxy resin? Am I the distant matter at hand or does that moniker belong to these objects in quiet conversation?

The conversation seemingly concerns the history of tools used in measuring the great distances between things such as the entire sky as in Lukas’ Atlas, 2018, in which an original copy of a photographic atlas stellarium by Hans Vehenberg is placed on a wooden platform. The viewer looks down into an inverted sky graphed into measurable squares which are scattered with both the originals of fossils, meteorites and roman shards as well as 3D printed carbon-silica sand and PLA replications. The conversation also concerns the small distances between things, as in the domestic and the everyday, as in the wallpapering table on which Katrín’s gradients of color are UV printed that could just as well be in your living room.

When placed side by side, these two vast scales at work allow the exhibition space to breathe – both in long inhalations and in short gasps – the body’s sense of scale likewise tries to keep up while the distant and the conjunct play in reciprocal motions, back and forth (like the movement of pen plotters, 3D printer arms, and the light beam from an image scanner creating a digital version of what once was held in your hands.)

The quote about quantum physics that is all too easily misunderstood in layman’s terms comes to mind while walking around the space. It goes something like this: you are an observer located at a single point in space-time, an event. The singularity principle also comes to mind, something about how equations that diverge towards infinity are afterward completely unknown to us.

The exhibition can take you through a crash course in these ideas but leave you feeling very human in the end, returned to the land, so to speak, like the meteorite itself brought you back, even if as a 3D print – which will have to do, since that appears to be the direction of things as 3D printing technology infiltrates our biology, building prosthetics and completely collapsing the staggering Old World equation of measuring costs in material, time, and energy on a human scale. The exhibition can take you to these places, yet leave you, rather singularly, with a body of resources and tools to extend the senses into vast distances to be mapped, like tossing a rock into a well and listening to the echo to get an idea of the depth and fullness.

In conversation with Katrín, I am told that she and Lukas have always had a conceptual approach:

“The art movements of the 1960s and early ‘70s like Land Art and Minimal Art have been an influence on both of our work, just as much as a Pop point of view. Perhaps symptomatic of the times we are in, I would say young artists have a wide-ranging frame of reference. Essential for both of us, though, is the fundamental concern in creating good images. Creating an image has such a universal meaning and is so deep in global history, but everyone connects to it at the same time.”

While seemingly a simple and straightforward concern, in the making of good images one can look at many overlapping cultural and scientific histories to see the depth at which one can travel in search for how to go about this activity. What makes it so difficult? Are there too many demands on the image in the 21st century or not enough? Consider: Is it aesthetically pleasing, in good resolution, conducive to the surroundings, making the best use of the technology that made it? “I grew up with an Icelandic art history background so the strong tradition of the influence of the landscape on the viewer has always been present. In all of my works,” Katrín says, “ I am imitating nature.” Perhaps that is the only real standard by which to judge a good image.

Katrín has worked before with the poster medium, one of many everyday objects she often includes in her work. On one whole wall of the exhibition space, a grid of posters called Blue Gradient (taken from airplane), 2018, is wallpapered to site-specific dimensions. The photo, indeed taken from the window of an airplane, shows a gradient stretching from dark blue sky to white horizon line. “Vice versa to the imitation of nature with computer-based tools,” Katrín says, “I simulate digital effects with material captured in nature, with photographs of the sky.” The photo is turned sideways so that the white horizon lines now touch other white horizon lines and are transformed into a wall of roving light photo scanners, giving the sensation that the whole room is in the process of being copied, digitized, turned into pixels, tossed into outer space and returned to something we can understand here in this room, like an everyday affair (like the cloud our phones and computers send data to, an everyday reality, so abstract yet mundane at this point.)

Works with UV printing, very common in advertising, are together with other techniques adapted from that field, definitely part of her ‘everyday’ oeuvre. However, unlike in advertisement, her images are based on a conceptual use of color. Boundary Colors (2015) is based on the color theories of Goethe who observed colors on the borders of darkness, which Katrín tells me, is, of course, sunrise and sunset. The piece in question is a lenticular image, meaning it changes depending on the angle from which it is viewed, displaying an almost time-lapse painting display of colors corresponding to those edges of darkness.

“A lot of these works are process-based, and because of the nature of the long-distance atmosphere, many of the final curatorial decisions were made on site,” added curator, Becky Forsythe. “There was this flexibility, from beginning to end, which is the way I like to approach exhibition making.” This open flexibility practically bleeds into the horizon, making distant matter an object on the table, observable from an airplane window or through your mobile phone, stretching across vast distances that could also be seen as quite minuscule. Formal elements connect the space through color gradients, scales, and patterns, like the structural layers creating a 3D print which build upon the other, making the intangible tangible. The space breathes, despite the large number of works in the room; perhaps it is the abundance of gradients of colors, allowing everything to exist on its own scale.

Erin Honeycutt


Distant Matter at The Living Art Museum by Katrín Agnes Klar and Lukas Kindermann. Curated by Becky Forsythe

Exhibition duration: 19.01.18 – 11.03.18

Photos: Vigfús Birgisson

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