contemporary monkey

Palais de Tokyo: where caring goes to die

Thank the Art Gods on High for someone in the universe who is watching over each and every one of us gallery hustlers and museum freaks who just don’t have enough time in the day. Enough time in the day to pore over, wrestle through, sneer at and wonder through as much contemporary art as our brains can digest (if that’s what brains could actually do). It can’t all be absorbed by one man on a stiff budget in an average lifetime of wine, art and song. No one person can do it all; gallery-hop like they’re an escaped banker, buying airline tickets like its beer on a Friday afternoon. For that, we are hereby and forever in your debt, kind sir or madam, M. Curator, for what is probably the least impressive collection of art in the known and unknown universe: the Palais de Tokyo in Paris. You have killed my soul. Prepare to die.

I give you, the fellow art traveller, full permission to strike it off your list of places to see before you leave this earth. I can confidently state that the Palais de Tokyo is not part of any travel diary with the words “un-missable, must-have, once in a lifetime”. Or, if it must remain on your bucket list, surely its just and true place is behind the largest sisal twine ball in Darwin, Minnesota. It might then all make sense, this crazy life of yours. Ball of string: check. OK then, we’re off to Paris for the one cultural dustball that will finally put me six feet under. Who wants whiskey?

Having just returned from visits to both the Musee d’Art Moderne de la Ville De Paris and the Palais de Tokyo (they are separated by only a cafe - of course they are, it’s Paris). The difference couldn’t be more stark. French roast on one side, decaf on the other. On the Musee d’Art Moderne side: a thriving art hive of busy public-ness, of well-intentioned learning for French and non-French alike, of well-lined walls and floor space with, well, modern and contemporary art. Administered by friendly locals throughout (are we still in France?), I am amongst the coherently curated thread of an argument, an idea, a point posited by the curator, using pieces from the Musee d’Art Moderne’s collection and non-collection alike. Fortune has looked favourably upon me, for I have used my depreciating roll of money wisely. I shall eat this evening.

Musee d'Art Moderne de Paris: warning, contains more life

On the other hand, and the other side of the cafe, there’s the Palais de Tokyo. A static storehouse of forgotten and rotting art pieces, watched over by what appear to be three former bank security guards on holiday; standing, smoking, chatting with each other in France’s most ill-fitted suits. They look more at home inside a Metro underground station.

And of course, there’s the art - sort of. While the programme title promises a solitary thought by way of its title, “Dynasty”, the truth is the pieces appear to be more “We give up, see what you can do with it”. The video and wall lighting installations are either not working, or possibly that’s the point of the show: the ‘dynasty’ of 21st century western values, slumped to an unworkable heap of electrical cords that someone has pulled from the wall. Nobody is even trying here. Alongside the pieces are the lazy curator’s old friend, the unhelpful and completely worthless label, “Untitled. Mixed Media. 2010″. Gee thanks, now I completely understand where I am in the universe of modern man. The continual struggle for meaning and identity.

The Palais de Tokyo itself, the building that is, not the vacuous anti-life inside, is a promising space. It’s not polished, it’s not shaped like a former power station, and it’s not designed by a 21st century starchitect. It’s simply a beat-to-hell space, and a very large one at that. Unfortunately, the space is so large it reveals the weakness of whomever is supposed to be upholding the responsibility of public service. Unless you count driving foot traffic over to the Musee d’Art Moderne as a civic duty. Which, in this case, I’m willing to support.

lots to say, not enough wood planks

Let’s say you’re trundling along to work on British Rail on a weary weekday morning, about 8:30, pressed up as politely as you can, to your like-minded human brothers and sisters, and you’re counting the stops to your final destination because, well, you can only hold your breath for so long.  Just as you’re quietly pronouncing judgement on the other sardines in the tin, out burst the words of wit from the mouths of one or two of your previously targeted victims.  Something random comes up in a conversation, like, “Why don’t they just do their job and fire me?”  Or possibly, “Standing at 30 mph will be the fastest I move all morning”.  But more probably, “Is your hand supposed to be there?”

And what happens, do you write these things down?  No, you don’t.  And you know why you don’t write these trophies down?  Because you’re not an artist (you’re on the 8:30 after all, while the whole of the artist-class is still happily dreaming during that avoidable part of the day).  Writing down, or even painting down, life’s found easter eggs is the job of the curious and enterprising artist….once they wake up, that is.

Take, for example, Bob and Roberta Smith, who are in this case, one artist/person.  Already the Human Resources people would have a problem with him…her…whomever, so the evidence of pure artist-hood is unmistakable.  Bob and Roberta Smith paint signs of anecdotes and slogans heard from the rest of the world.  Bob (to avoid confusion and lengthy copy, let’s use the masculine gender for reference) isn’t even a very good sign writer - he makes every mistake in the graphic design bible, such as not enough contrast between foreground and background, using enough type fonts to employ a London agency creative staff for ten projects, and the use of unwanted, cheap and not very “brand friendly” materials (banged up 2×4 planks, joined together).

He’s prolific, Bob, with his capturing the moment on oil and wood. At Beaconsfield Art Gallery, Bob’s finished up a year-long effort of sign-painting and sloganeering.  Beaconsfield is located in the Nine Elms part of London, and in their specific case, also physically supporting the 8:30 British Rail every weekday, along with every other late-running train that travels over the gallery.  Beaconsfield is 50% gallery, 50% cafe, filled with 100% wise-cracking artist customer base.  After grabbing a coffee, and feeling the sneer of the natives, one must endeavor to find the artist’s work.  In a first floor, disused theatre, about the size of a grammar school venue for a Christmas play, Bob’s made nine panels nailed (probably with rusty nails) to the wall, which are all part of a larger written story.  The artist has copied the content from a Guardian columnist who specializes in the tennis scene .  Steve Bierley was, at the time, on a somewhat alien assignment, covering something he normally doesn’t cover: art.  In his interview with the artist Louise Bourgeois, he summed up the difference between his familiar subject of sport, and art.  “You look at sport, you think about sport.  You look at art, and you think about yourself.”  A nice gem.  This sloganeering media might have some legs after all.

In another room which Beaconsfield has labeled “the Arches”  because it inhabits a trestle’s arch under the rails, Bob appears to be having a boot sale.  About a hundred signs are planted at every angle, on various made up pedestals, including staged on ladders, chairs, desks, and anything else happened to be in Bob’s way at the time.  Each sign itself is really not much to get frothy about, or even particularly noteworthy.  But painting slogans on lots of signboards, displaying them all together in a ramshackle under-the-tracks, hideout is something else.  Audibly layered with discordant and random, percussive music, played by Bob of course, the physical space you’re in becomes the art.  If there were comfy sofas and bar tables, this would be a vibey place for an after-work drink-up.  Maybe all misunderstood artist should think this way.  If an art piece means absolutely nothing to 102 % of the world, just make loads of similar pieces and amass a treasure chest of glory.  Even if it doesn’t work, think of all the cool party places we’ll have.  When I win the lottery, I’m going to buy one of these poor man’s cafe and art bar.  Forget the diamonds and flashy cards, think of all the strange and weird friends you could hang out with in your new art space?