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.

Zaha Hadid: one of the few soul-full

In the never-ending comparison between men and women, to me the variations are never as stark as they are dramatically overblown.  That philosophy proved to be true at the Pompidou Centre’s “Elle’s@centrepompidou” exhibition this past week.  Unfortunately, that’s a bad thing for women.  The works displayed were all 20th and 21st century pieces by women from The Centre’s collection.  I wonder if they’re all in a women’s locker room somewhere, separated from the male pieces?

When it comes to art after the 1950’s, women are equal to men in visual representing an idea. Never underestimate the power of disappointment to cross all boundaries.  Anything hanging on a wall at the Pompidou Centre seemed to fall into the Tracy Emin trap of making “objet weird”, made for shock purposes only.  From the vantage point of the 21st century, it all seems so quaint.  Women have successfully advanced since the 1960s, maybe not where they need to be, but certainly a giant leap for (wo)man-kind.  The social contract with men on display here is so outdated as to cause more confusion than create meaning.  One exception was Guerrilla Girls, who have rightly recognized women in the role of equal citizen, but convince us in their own humorous way.  Taking your audience forward is always more successful than reliving the past.

Typical of the installations was a Marina Abramovic video.  Whatever fascination Abramovic has with the concept of time, it’s not very interesting to the rest of us.  In a video that repeats itself, dulling its viewers with the phrase, “Art must be beautiful.  Artist must be beautiful.”  Abramovic brushes her hair in front of a camera.  For about 30 minutes.  The rumour is that the video continues with the same action, until she’s destroyed her hair and face.  I forced myself to watch 10 minutes of it, and it looked more like self-love than self-flagellation.  The point was made after 30 seconds, and it appeared that most people around me agreed by being swifter out of the room.

Louise Nevelson

A few areas of the exhibition that I thought succeeded though, were in the category of 3D.  Zaha Hadid is one of the most inventive designers of space, and the exhibition created a small place for photos and drawings of her buildings.  Louise Nevelson was also present through a monumental wooden piece called, “Reflexions of a Waterfall I”.  The form and space created transcended the smallness of the show’s purpose of female/male differences.  Along with Hadid, Nevelson made me think of the female sense of physical placement in space as something special and possibly unique.  I think.  I’m not sure why men couldn’t have that same sense, but maybe we don’t.  We’re better at parking cars, aren’t we guys?

In Art and Auction, June 2009 issue, Jack Kilgore gives good advice for appreciating art.  He says, “Art is a form of communication, and the pictures must have a soul.  They have to have something special.  You know it when you see it.”  I saw very little soul at the Pompidou, but I did witness confirmation of what I knew before going in.  While men and women might approach life from different perspectives, as contemporary artists they are alike: most of the time, self-indulgent with occasional traces of hope.