Sensory Overload
Milwaukee Art Museum
700 N. Art Museum Drive, Milwaukee
www.mam.org
Through October 1, 2009
By Katherine Murrell
June 12, 2008. Sensory Overload has big ambitions. This exhibition at the
Milwaukee Art Museum features many major pieces from the Museum’s
permanent collection, and functions as something of a reinstalled “chapter” within
the scope of the museum’s holdings, one that tells of post-war through early 21st
century art ostensibly concerned with common agendas.
Sensory Overload purports to dazzle and delight your senses, particularly the
optical, with a fabulous array of bright things, blinky things, loud things, flashy,
fleshy videos and even things you can walk into. HUZZZAH! It's damn well an art
historical fun house. But what of it? The intrepid viewer takes their cue from the
promising title, ambles into the installation area, politely waiting to be shocked,
awed…entertained. Therein, I think, may be one of the most illuminating aspects of
the installation, a subtextual commentary on the identity issues facing museums
today.
But first, the show. As a show, that is to say, a group of objects or artifacts
brought together to illustrate a theme or idea, the level of cohesion is pretty loose.
There is a gesture to organization by chronology, taking the sparse text panels as
guideposts, but the arrangement of works seems to hang around major pieces
singled out for size or interactive capabilities. Nam June Paik's monumental Ruin
is a seductive siren, a great heaping mound of vintage televisions. It's a massive
piece, buzzing and glowing with the flicker of television screens seemingly
controlled by a neurotic channel changer. This towering mass is like an
unclimbable mountain, an awesome landscape built from the temporal dalliances
of our lives on film. But have we come to the mountain or the trash heap of
obsolescence, waiting for it to topple upon us? Figuratively, of course.
Ruin draws people in, but it doesn't begin the story. In fact, the story, as far as art
historical narratives go, is primarily referenced by brief text panels posted in each
gallery section. The scattering of paragraphs gives some information as to
influence and chronology, but without a depth that creates any sense of
understanding; what is all this stuff and why is it here?
Major artists considered within the realm of Op Art are included, but unfortunately
overshadowed by the emphasis on interactive elements. Victor
Vasarély, a seminal figure in this genre is represented by paintings from the MAM
collection, including the disarmingly illusionistic Sir-Ris. You know the painting is
flat, you know it just the same as you know that the earth is round. But looking at
the painting, it is much easier to accept the latter, as Vasarély's illusion is so
convincing. Vasarély is tucked in a corner next to Howard Jones' Sonic II. This
motion-activated piece emits percussive sounds based on the actions of the viewer.
It is a funny, quirky pieces, but the novelty quickly wears off, and it seems that it
would be more at home at Discovery World.
On the subject of interactive pieces, Stanley Landsman's Walk-In Infinity Chamber
has made its long-awaited return. I remember this from my young teenage years,
and as I recall, it was installed upstairs off one of the galleries where the Haitian
collection is now. As I further recall, the first time I experienced it, I opened an
innocuous looking door, and stepped inside. It was a fabulous, magical,
unforgettable experience - one of those bizarre waking dream-like moments that
you know was real but might as well not have been, so surreal and strange it was.
So it was with much delight that I anticipated the Infinity Chamber. I knew it was
within the exhibition, and began to suspect just where it was when I saw the great
big hulking black crate.
It is a distinctly carnivalesque viewing experience as you queue up around the
crate, are given booties to wear by the attendant standing by, and advised that
only two people may enter at a time. The first day that I saw this exhibition, the
attendant was kindly trying to reassure a twenty-something-year-old woman that the
chamber wasn't frightening, that she would be fine, nothing to be afraid of. How
different from the days of my youth - the unknown has become fearful instead of a
delightful surprise.
It is not something to pass up, however, though the contours of the box seem to
give away the secret that what is contained is not infinity at all (really!?). But the
chamber is an enveloping environment, one that transforms your immediate
perceptions, particularly in terms of fundamentally altering your sense of space
and your place within it.
As a contemporary counterpoint to the Infinity Chamber, the other end of the
exhibition is bookended by MATRIX XV by Erwin Redl. It is a lovely, cool sight,
like the creation of a postmodern, digital forest. It is also a communal experience,
and the presence of others enhances the experience. Gingerly making your way
through, paths seem to appear and disappear, though logically the grid is easy to
understand, but navigating through the murky light and dangling wires is like
finding your way through the cybernetic landscape, exploring and conscious of
your steps. It, like Infinity Chamber, is meant to be experienced, to be something
that the viewer is part of, or even subsumed by. But how else is the experience to
be processed, beyond the tactile and immediate novelty?
The quest for interactivity is one that seems to be on the mind of many cultural
institutions. With a society so accustomed to being entertained, to having sensory
experience on-demand and in all forms, whether is be the high definition DVD on
the giganto-plasma screen, or Lawrence of Arabia squashed down to fit your cell
phone, we usurp images into our medium of choosing within the informal context
of our lives.
In an effort to become hip and trendy, as well as reassert relevance, there seems to
be an effort on the part of museums and cultural institutions to meet these new
terms on the grounds of digital media and the self-directed experience.
Technological possibilities are exciting, but perhaps what needs to be cautiously
cared for is the ability for good old-fashioned storytelling, in the curatorial sense.
It's fine and well to have 10,000 paintings digitized to show your friends on your
cell phone, but what of the more thoughtful, contemplative, quiet component, of the
richly nuanced experience that only happens in a physical, prolonged encounter
with a work of art? What of the compelling stories of the artists, the influence, the
creators? For example, from this exhibition the question of purpose could loom in
the mind of the viewer: what prompted Sol LeWitt to paint bright zig-zagged
panels? Did he "just feel like it?" Was he just "expressing himself?" These stories
and ideas are what we rely on museums to tell us, to not just show us the fruits of
human creativity, but to act as a repository and conveyor of knowledge. The art
historical memory only takes a physical form through the diligent results of
meticulous research and clear communication, be it written or otherwise.
Otherwise, the art historical memory is one of the most invisible parts of the
museum experience, but remains one of the most important.
Katherine Murrell is co-publisher of Susceptible to Images.
Milwaukee Art Museum
700 N. Art Museum Drive, Milwaukee
www.mam.org
Through October 1, 2009
By Katherine Murrell
June 12, 2008. Sensory Overload has big ambitions. This exhibition at the
Milwaukee Art Museum features many major pieces from the Museum’s
permanent collection, and functions as something of a reinstalled “chapter” within
the scope of the museum’s holdings, one that tells of post-war through early 21st
century art ostensibly concerned with common agendas.
Sensory Overload purports to dazzle and delight your senses, particularly the
optical, with a fabulous array of bright things, blinky things, loud things, flashy,
fleshy videos and even things you can walk into. HUZZZAH! It's damn well an art
historical fun house. But what of it? The intrepid viewer takes their cue from the
promising title, ambles into the installation area, politely waiting to be shocked,
awed…entertained. Therein, I think, may be one of the most illuminating aspects of
the installation, a subtextual commentary on the identity issues facing museums
today.
But first, the show. As a show, that is to say, a group of objects or artifacts
brought together to illustrate a theme or idea, the level of cohesion is pretty loose.
There is a gesture to organization by chronology, taking the sparse text panels as
guideposts, but the arrangement of works seems to hang around major pieces
singled out for size or interactive capabilities. Nam June Paik's monumental Ruin
is a seductive siren, a great heaping mound of vintage televisions. It's a massive
piece, buzzing and glowing with the flicker of television screens seemingly
controlled by a neurotic channel changer. This towering mass is like an
unclimbable mountain, an awesome landscape built from the temporal dalliances
of our lives on film. But have we come to the mountain or the trash heap of
obsolescence, waiting for it to topple upon us? Figuratively, of course.
Ruin draws people in, but it doesn't begin the story. In fact, the story, as far as art
historical narratives go, is primarily referenced by brief text panels posted in each
gallery section. The scattering of paragraphs gives some information as to
influence and chronology, but without a depth that creates any sense of
understanding; what is all this stuff and why is it here?
Major artists considered within the realm of Op Art are included, but unfortunately
overshadowed by the emphasis on interactive elements. Victor
Vasarély, a seminal figure in this genre is represented by paintings from the MAM
collection, including the disarmingly illusionistic Sir-Ris. You know the painting is
flat, you know it just the same as you know that the earth is round. But looking at
the painting, it is much easier to accept the latter, as Vasarély's illusion is so
convincing. Vasarély is tucked in a corner next to Howard Jones' Sonic II. This
motion-activated piece emits percussive sounds based on the actions of the viewer.
It is a funny, quirky pieces, but the novelty quickly wears off, and it seems that it
would be more at home at Discovery World.
On the subject of interactive pieces, Stanley Landsman's Walk-In Infinity Chamber
has made its long-awaited return. I remember this from my young teenage years,
and as I recall, it was installed upstairs off one of the galleries where the Haitian
collection is now. As I further recall, the first time I experienced it, I opened an
innocuous looking door, and stepped inside. It was a fabulous, magical,
unforgettable experience - one of those bizarre waking dream-like moments that
you know was real but might as well not have been, so surreal and strange it was.
So it was with much delight that I anticipated the Infinity Chamber. I knew it was
within the exhibition, and began to suspect just where it was when I saw the great
big hulking black crate.
It is a distinctly carnivalesque viewing experience as you queue up around the
crate, are given booties to wear by the attendant standing by, and advised that
only two people may enter at a time. The first day that I saw this exhibition, the
attendant was kindly trying to reassure a twenty-something-year-old woman that the
chamber wasn't frightening, that she would be fine, nothing to be afraid of. How
different from the days of my youth - the unknown has become fearful instead of a
delightful surprise.
It is not something to pass up, however, though the contours of the box seem to
give away the secret that what is contained is not infinity at all (really!?). But the
chamber is an enveloping environment, one that transforms your immediate
perceptions, particularly in terms of fundamentally altering your sense of space
and your place within it.
As a contemporary counterpoint to the Infinity Chamber, the other end of the
exhibition is bookended by MATRIX XV by Erwin Redl. It is a lovely, cool sight,
like the creation of a postmodern, digital forest. It is also a communal experience,
and the presence of others enhances the experience. Gingerly making your way
through, paths seem to appear and disappear, though logically the grid is easy to
understand, but navigating through the murky light and dangling wires is like
finding your way through the cybernetic landscape, exploring and conscious of
your steps. It, like Infinity Chamber, is meant to be experienced, to be something
that the viewer is part of, or even subsumed by. But how else is the experience to
be processed, beyond the tactile and immediate novelty?
The quest for interactivity is one that seems to be on the mind of many cultural
institutions. With a society so accustomed to being entertained, to having sensory
experience on-demand and in all forms, whether is be the high definition DVD on
the giganto-plasma screen, or Lawrence of Arabia squashed down to fit your cell
phone, we usurp images into our medium of choosing within the informal context
of our lives.
In an effort to become hip and trendy, as well as reassert relevance, there seems to
be an effort on the part of museums and cultural institutions to meet these new
terms on the grounds of digital media and the self-directed experience.
Technological possibilities are exciting, but perhaps what needs to be cautiously
cared for is the ability for good old-fashioned storytelling, in the curatorial sense.
It's fine and well to have 10,000 paintings digitized to show your friends on your
cell phone, but what of the more thoughtful, contemplative, quiet component, of the
richly nuanced experience that only happens in a physical, prolonged encounter
with a work of art? What of the compelling stories of the artists, the influence, the
creators? For example, from this exhibition the question of purpose could loom in
the mind of the viewer: what prompted Sol LeWitt to paint bright zig-zagged
panels? Did he "just feel like it?" Was he just "expressing himself?" These stories
and ideas are what we rely on museums to tell us, to not just show us the fruits of
human creativity, but to act as a repository and conveyor of knowledge. The art
historical memory only takes a physical form through the diligent results of
meticulous research and clear communication, be it written or otherwise.
Otherwise, the art historical memory is one of the most invisible parts of the
museum experience, but remains one of the most important.
Katherine Murrell is co-publisher of Susceptible to Images.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| Copyright 2008 Art History Chicks LLC |
| Background: Nam June Paik, Ruin, 2001 Foreground, right: Painting by Richard Anuszkiewicz. Photograph by Katherine Murrell. |
| Left: Howard Jones, Sonic II, 1967-68. Right: Victor Vasarély, Sir-Ris, ca. 1957. Photograph by Katherine Murrell. |
| Stanley Landsman, Walk-In Infinity Chamber, 1968. Photograph by Arthur Elkon. |
| Erwin Redl, MATRIX XV, 2007 Photograph by Arthur Elkon. |