This probably digresses a bit for this blog (which is sorrowfully un-updated due to teaching), but in the interest of seeing a couple photography exhibitions at the National Gallery of Canada, as well as Janet Cardiff’s Forty-Part Motet, I made a road trip to Ottawa (and got some visiting with a friend in as well).
I have never, in my entire life, been in a gallery more paranoid, imposing, and oppressive. It was horrendous.
There were no docents (although coloured circles on the ground, well, two of them in the whole gallery, indicated a time when one could listen to a specimen of these mythical beasts talk for ten minutes – I never saw any however. Unicorns they are, museum docents) – only security guards. And they were everywhere. I was never out of sight of at least two at any given moment in the entire gallery, I’d even hazard there were at least two guards for every display area. They were discomforting, intrusive, sometimes overtly rude, occasionally disgustingly fragrant, and generally a complete scar on the gallery itself and my experience as a patron.
If you took the paintings down from the wall, you’d think yourself in an overly spacious labyrinthine prison.
(on that note – there’s no need for locked doors and prison bars when the layout of your gallery is impossible to navigate, and the only outward-looking porthole-like windows view nothing but the same internal concrete and steel architecture. Landmarks are “out the window”, only, they aren’t, actually. Wordplay!)
As a representation of art in Canada, our official representation, our collection, the thing we hold up to the world – it was just plain horrible.
Photography wise it was pretty disappointing as well. Made in America 1900-1950 had its share of nice works, some quite iconic, but ultimately largely forgettable. There was a series of small landscapes photos by Minor White that was quite unique, because in the midst of the some sixteen images were two idealized photos of a male youth in the landscape – clearly an object of desire – and I’d have photos here of that to show if I wasn’t accosted by security the moment I lifted my camera.
I wondered why they wouldn’t even allow photos without the flash, and then realized the simple truth: if I take photos, I won’t buy their FIFTY FUCKING DOLLAR EXHIBITION CATALOG. FUCK. YOU.
Which brings up another ridiculous point – the bookstore. What a waste of space. It’s a glorified giftshop with overpriced art books you can find for a fraction of the cost in the bargain book area of Chapters or Indigo, alongside even more overpriced trinkets and bullshit tourist crap. There’s even an entire section filled with cookbooks. COOK BOOKS. IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY BOOKSTORE.
What a fucking waste of space.
You might gather I’m a little irritated, with all the swearing. You would be right. And no, diplomacy is out the window right now.
Amusingly, their website doesn’t have a page for the other exhibition of photography I saw, which had something to do with “land” in the title, and was largely landscape works. A few were quite excellent, but some was pretty shoddy and I really questioned why they were being displayed – I’m teaching students to take some critical rigour with their printing, to evaluate if an image can be printed as large as they want and retain detail, and I’m seeing shit in the National Gallery over-printed for no good reason and lacking any and all detail, it might as well be a cafeteria mural.
(and no, it wasn’t meant to be a reference to cafeteria murals. It was just bad art.)
Janet Cardiff’s work was fantastic, beautiful, well worth the drive to see. For some odd reason however they chose to display several examples of silver pots and dinnerwear in the chapel, which vibrated during the performance of the work and rang. That was strange.
Voice of Fire was underwhelming, glared by bad lighting, and displayed in a manner contrary to what the plaque accompanying the work claimed was how it was intended to be shown.
There was no bench or pew in front of their Rothko. Heresy!
And apart from some interesting polaroid works, no significant contemporary photography to speak of. You’d think they’d have a Jeff Wall or a Gregory Crewdson or I dunno, every major gallery has a Nan Goldin, Cindy Sherman, Catherine Opie right? Right? I guess not.
Despite my foray into art imprisonment, I managed to snag shots of David Altmedj’s Vessel of 2011. That was exciting. And here said photos be:























