What does it all mean?
conveying a message
“There are painters who transform the sun to a yellow spot, but there are others who with the help of their art and their intelligence, transform a yellow spot into sun” — Pablo Picasso
The “Designer Showcase House”, although a big deal in the United States, has yet to catch on in the UK; such immersive design experiences inevitably tend to garner a great deal of editorial attention and ergo, column inches. As such it can be a great way for a designer to make a name for themselves and to bring in more work, and often, those designers involved try to make a statement that will capture the attention of the media, whether that be on a graphic level e.g. a bold, shocking use of colour and print (think David Hicks (1929-1998) and Kelly Wearstler (b. 1967)), or, perhaps, by making an attempt at an artistic or political statement. A recent example of the latter can be seen in the work of an interior designer who in 2014 filled the library of a West Coast show house with salvaged books which were whitewashed shut. “The painted books serve as a neutral backdrop, almost like wallpaper,” the designer in question explained, “I imagined a young homeowner who hasn’t amassed a library and what they have is on their iPad … So a little bit of it was also to discuss where we are going with libraries? Are they something that is going to be vanishing?” The overall space was, undoubtedly, aesthetically pleasing, an exercise in perfectly ordered good taste. However, for some years now wrapping books in white paper, or even turning them backward — with the spines facing in — has been a “trend” (or “fad” for want of a better word) in interior design, favoured by those who, presumably, find multi-coloured spines a distraction, or, as taking away from the neutrality of a beige on beige interior (at the opposite end of the spectrum, which appears equally, if not more, contrived, are those bookshelves arranged in colour order — like a life-size Pantone colour chart). Therefore, would anyone visiting really read this show house “installation” as a any sort of political (rather than merely an aesthetic) statement — without first being told, or reading, of the designers intent? Doubtful.
“The High Priestess/Zweistromland” (1985-1989) (detail) by Anselm Kiefer
“My Bed” (1998) (detail) by Tracy Emin
It’s very much the same thing as saying an armchair upholstered in cowhide is a commentary on failed agricultural policy or people choosing the comfort and convenience of processed pre-packaged food at the cost of the environment; it’s an interiors trend seen again and again and therefore highly unlikely a viewer will read it as anything but. Slightly more abstract, but on the same theme, if one describes the reception desk of a contemporary art gallery as commentary on the corporate takeover of the art market, is it installation art? Would anybody understand is to be? It’s clear that something more is needed than mere “intent” and if making a statement it needs to be, at least to a degree, clear. Going back to the aforementioned three examples, a reception desk, an armchair and whitewashed books: how about a copy of Arturo Di Modica’s (b. 1941) Wall Street Bull (or rather Charging Bull (1989)) splattered in silage, a meat carcass thrown over an armchair, or a pile of burnt books in the corner of a library (Anselm Kiefer’s (b. 1945) wonderfully emotive work The High Priestess/Zweistromland (1985-1989) uses lead books, some fused together, stacked on two enormous bookcases, named after the rivers Tigris and Euphrates in Mesopotamia — which were the cradle of Western civilization — representative of knowledge and learning under fascism) — all of which, whilst, extremely simplistic examples, very much on the nose and purely for illustrative purposes — will get people talking and start a conversation on what exactly the artist (or interior designer) is trying to say.
Felix Gonzalez- Torres’s letter to Ross Laycock (1988)
Arguably a work, especially when attempting to convey a political or social message should in some way communicate with the viewer, and it’s a very difficult thing to achieve; as a positive illustration, it’s something American artist Titus Kaphar (b. 1976) achieves with aplomb — his deeply personal and evocative work a reflection on racial dynamics and oppressive stereotypes from Jim Crow to the Black Power Movement to the worldwide protests brought on by police actions that led to the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. For the 0.1% — those with an awful lot of speculative income — art and interiors are both places that attract a great deal of money. Of course most of those people still hold the 19th century image of art — that it’s predominantly about beauty. Looking back at the canon of art, for many hundreds of years, before the advent of modern, post-modern, minimalist and installation, messages — although often layered with meaning and geared towards a particular class, for e.g. the educated, aristocratic or religious — works of art were considerably less abstract; many were created to cement and enforce power or social structure (battle scenes and portraiture) and others were undoubtedly simply a celebration of beauty. The ambition of a landscape painter (Monet (1840-1926) and Turner (1775-1851) spring to mind) might be to capture and convey light, or atmosphere, which even those with no artistic education can understand perfectly from the finished work (although a great deal of Monet reads terribly in printed form, his works at the Musée de l'Orangerie appear somewhat saccharine when reproduced in school textbooks, whereas in person their scale and emotional impact are overwhelming — Rothko (1903-1970) is another of the great artists who really needs to be experienced in person).
Then suddenly, somewhere in the twentieth century, art became “contemporary” and then it became “abstract” — it was no longer necessarily beautiful and, unlike the majority of the work that preceded it, left the viewer to work out their own meaning; essentially, artists no longer felt it necessary to explain themselves. Picasso (1881-1973) — undoubtedly the most famous of the abstractionists — experimented with ideas considerably more complex than those of Monet and Turner, abandoning traditional viewpoints, rearranging the compound elements of an object on a canvas, and using multiple perspectives, which, generally speaking, allowed for greater truth and accuracy than the traditional naturalistic style that had dominated art since the Renaissance (Neither Braque (1882-1963) nor Picasso ever actually explained why they used this technique and any interpretation is of course purely as a result of academic discourse); yet, even if viewer is unaware of Picasso’s artistic ambition, his works — which, it’s important to remember, never reached pure abstraction — are easy enough to read for e.g. as a woman, horse, guitar etc (Kandinsky (1866-1944), interestingly, viewed Picasso’s work as a “a sign of the enormous struggle towards the immaterial”) and again, even those with little academic artistic training can easily engage with them. At the opposite end of the scale, post abstraction, post post-modern, we have works like Tracy Emin’s (b. 1963) infamous installation My Bed (1998) which, exhibited at the Tate Modern in 1999, was the source of great derision from the general public — and indeed frenzied media furore, particularly over the fact that the sheets were stained with bodily secretions (at the time Emin’s former boyfriend, former Stuckist artist Billy Childish (b. 1959), stated that he also had an old bed of hers in the shed which he would make available for £20,000). When auctioned by Christie’s in July 2014, the piece was sold to a private collector for just a little over £2.5 million. Arguably its daring has altered the British public’s relationship with and perception of contemporary art in the two decades since — bringing the idea and acceptance and understanding (to an extent) of installation art into the mainstream consciousness. “I got out of bed and I looked at it and I just thought, “Wow.” I just saw it in a white space,” Emin has since said of the decisive moment she came to the idea that it was an artwork. “I saw it out of that environment and, subconsciously, I saw myself out of that environment, and I saw a way for my future that wasn’t a failure, that wasn’t desperate.”
“Drawing the Blinds” (2014) by Titus Kaphar
Of course, context is key, and in a “white space” the viewer will assume any object is art (like the much publicised incident in 2016 when two teenagers left a pair of glasses on the floor of a gallery at San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art as a prank — below an official-looking piece of paper — which were later mistaken by the visiting public, and photographed, as an art installation) — even if only to pour scorn and derision of the efforts of the artist (hence the example of the reception desk, which in a gallery might be the only thing immediately read as a fitting and not an installation). That being said, on the flip side, a good many become interested in an artist’s work having read about, it, them, and the meaning behind it; often when one understands an artist’s reason d’etre the work speaks to an individual on a far more personal level. In a recent interview with The London List gallerist Samuele Visentin for e.g. cited Untitled (Perfect Lovers) (1991) by Félix González-Torres (1957-1996) as his favourite work of art. “Time is something that scares me . . . or used to,” explains González-Torres. “This piece I made with the two clocks was the scariest thing I have ever done. I wanted to face it. I wanted those two clocks right in front of me, ticking.” The piece was conceived shortly after the artist’s partner was diagnosed with AIDS; an installation of two identical battery-powered clocks, synchronized and hanging side-by-side. Gonzalez-Torres acknowledged that the clocks would fall out of synch, one eventually stopping first. As ordinary objects elevated to the level of fine art, the clocks undoubtedly reference the Duchampian readymade, and, with their austere forms and serial repetition, Minimalist sculpture — but for many it undoubtedly has meaning. “The artist managed to condense so many different layers of meaning in such simple objects; the inevitable passing of time, the death sentence AIDS meant back then and the meaning of love,” Visentin says of the piece. “It punched my guts, but it was full of warmth. It made me want to call my parents and kiss my boyfriend. It was also the first time a work of art left such a mark on me.”
This obscurity in meaning is at least one of the reasons why big names are so popular with collectors. There are more and more people spending vast amounts of money on contemporary art who know little or nothing about it, who don’t trust their eye and go for easily recognizable brand names that are more familiar and that make them feel more comfortable — the likes of Warhol (1928-1987), Koons (b. 1955), KAWS (b. 1974) etc — with a proven track record at auction; it’s not necessary to understand such artists to know that they’re a good investment — it’s essentially the art equivalent of buying a Rolex watch or a Chanel handbag. Even for those more learned collectors, the art world is essentially something of a religion, or rather, a belief system; in that you really have to believe in the work of a contemporary artist for it to be worth half a million pounds (unlike the market for Warhol for e.g. which manipulates market price in a manner akin to a traders manipulation of the stock market — although unlike the latter, in the art world it’s entirely legal). Art, design and fashion are becoming ever increasingly intertwined and as a result there’s a real risk that those attempting to portray a political or social message might come off as insincere or disingenuous; trying to cash in on real social issues, either financially or as a means to gain column inches and media attention. This can be anything from designer Katharine Hamnett wearing an anti-missile “58% Don’t Want Pershing” T-shirt to meet Margaret Thatcher at Downing Street reception in 1984 to MAGA hats in modern day America — which many feel have become symbols of oppression, intolerance, racism, and isolationism; in an increasingly fraught political landscape, a good many, especially in the worlds of fashion, interiors and design have found it hard to remain impartial — and quite simply there’s no reason why they should. Academically speaking the art world doesn’t really care anymore about whether something is a painting, drawing, video or even a digital manifestation and art can take a myriad forms — the key factor is its meaning, and whether it conveys some sort of visual impact. Essentially, if you’re going to say something, say it, but don’t make some half-baked show of solidarity, when the reality is it’s nothing more than “wallpaper”.