OLAFUR ELIASSON
TANYA BONAKDAR GALLERY
A viewer rushing to Olafur
Eliasson’s latest exhibition expecting a quiet epiphany or a spontaneous
unveiling of the mechanisms of perception-an “Aha!” moment, as the artist
says-would have been disappointed, at least initially. Eliasson had turned the
gallery’s main space into a cluttered workshop in which cobbled-together
shelves and ad hoc vitrines lined the wails and spilled into the center—not a
stark subtle “intervention” by any means. Titled Modelroom, 2003, the work true to its name, functioning primarily as
an invitation into the artist’s preparatory processes, which, we learned, are
made up of equal parts architecture and science fiction and supplemented by a mammoth
dose of advanced mathematics.
Everywhere one looked there
was another vaguely alchemical, mad-scientist-meets-Buckminster Fuller
confection—here a geodesic dome, there a spiral sphere, in the comer a
star-shaped tensile structure complete with tiny plastic men for scale. The
myriad maquettes represented dozens of spatial forms, some merely experimental
land perhaps impossible), some meant to be realized in the future, others already built. (The installation was the most recent
in a series of collaborations with Einar Thorsteinn, an Icelandic architect,
engineer, and crystallographer.) There was a sort of recycled sensibility to
all the wood, wire, cardboard, and aluminum foil, as if it had been diligently
salvaged and then redeployed (a nod to arte
povera as much as an illustration of tired but persistent utopic ideals).
Like the crystals from which many borrowed their shapes, Eliasson’s
constructions multiplied exponentially, filling the gallery with a visual noise
atypical within his oeuvre.
Eliasson is often admired
for his subtle architectural and technological works that punctuate (and
sometimes puncture) the monotony of the everyday-his ability to turn the banal into an unexpected site of illumination. Indeed, for
some ten years, he has managed to use a Romantic vocabulary without submitting
to kitsch, producing such wonders as a mechanized waterfall designed to rush
upward, a doppelgänger sunset (where a giant metal disc set high on a tower
mimicked the real thing), and urban rivers whose waters he temporarily dyed a
toxic-looking neon green. (In fact, Eliasson induced one such poetic piece, to
sublime effect, in the smaller gallery space: Plane Scanner, 2003, a minimalist work in the Light and Space
tradition in which two lighthouse lanterns cast their rotating beams onto the
walls, floor, and ceiling of the otherwise dark room. Neatly demarcating the
contours of the white cube, Eliasson simultaneously disallowed any holistic
comprehension of it.)
Modelroom performed a
completely different and uniquely valuable (if aesthetically risky) critical
function. You can’t really have an “Aha!” moment if you know you’ve got one
coming, so Eliasson slyly offered the opposite of what audiences have come to
expect: the dumb material stuff, the labor and failures and impossible
fantasies, sketched out in all their messy and even embarrassing tactility.
Eliasson has, time and again, “made it new” for his
viewers, elegantly laying bare and slightly tweaking perspectives and
physiological experiences that usually go unattended. Yet if the artist’s
continuing project is to encourage the spectator to heighten his or her “attention
to life”— to borrow a phrase from Henri Bergson, Eliasson’s muse—here he nimbly
kept to his task by counterintuitively multiplying and magnifying the pragmatic
material conditions that make those transcendental experiences possible.
–Johanna Burton