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Living With Disjunction: Manifesta 9 and Documenta 13 | The Nation

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Living With Disjunction: Manifesta 9 and Documenta 13

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Art, or rather its context, is becoming more loquacious. It’s gotten to the point where art isn’t supposed to exist until the public is told why it exists, what it means, whose interests it serves. Curators now prefer staging discussions of art to presenting works. The run-up to this year’s Documenta, the most prestigious of the great recurrent international art exhibitions, included the publication of no fewer than 100 booklets over a period of two years, with contributions by economists, anthropologists, art historians and experts of every other stripe, while each of the hundred days of the exhibition is accompanied by several lectures, conferences or readings. And yet there’s another viewpoint. “Poetry reaches the unsaid, and leaves it unsaid,” according to Etel Adnan, the Beirut-born, California-based poet and abstract painter who is among the 180 or so participants in Documenta, which takes place every five years in Kassel, Germany, a great place for the unsaid. Maybe the town had its charm 200 years ago, when the Brothers Grimm were collecting folk tales there; but having been flattened by Allied bombs in World War II, it’s now as nondescript as some provincial town turned inside out by utilitarian postwar planning and architecture.

About the Author

Barry Schwabsky
Barry Schwabsky is the art critic of The Nation. Schwabsky has been writing about art for the magazine since 2005, and...

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Kassel was hardly the most humdrum place I visited in search of art this summer. My pilgrimage began in Genk, Belgium, a Flemish village that was undistinguished until 1901, when coal was discovered there. It industrialized rapidly, drawing 
immigrants from throughout Europe; the mines have since gone dormant, but Genk remains a gritty industrial town. This year, it is hosting Manifesta 9, the latest edition of the roving European biennial of contemporary art that originated in Rotterdam in 1996 and last materialized in 2010 in Murcia, Spain. The name Manifesta is self-evidently a homage of sorts to Documenta, but by 
reputation—this was my first Manifesta—the biennial is a far leaner, younger, more experimental enterprise. Its peripatetic spirit
seems to be an expression of the rootlessness of the globalized, interconnected “knowledge economy” that, at least until the crash of 2008, seemed promising to so many.

Manifesta 9—curated by Cuauhtémoc Medina with Katerina Gregos and Dawn Ades, and on view through September 30—only half lives up to this reputation. Subtitled “The Deep of the Modern,” it pursues with a seriousness greater than any show I’ve seen the idea that an exhibition should engage the history of its locale. To this end, it is articulated in three parts, all of them situated within a vast mine works on the city’s outskirts. The first section concerns the history of coal mining and the life and culture of miners. It includes pieces by brand-name modernists who made work documenting the mining life, such as the filmmaker Joris Ivens, but consists mainly of artifacts (generally not so different from the ones found in the small mining museum housed in the same building) that illuminate both the general history of coal mining in Europe and the specific history of mining in Genk. Then comes an art-historical section on images of coal mining in modern art and the use of coal as an art material, beginning with Marcel Duchamp (his installation at the 1938 Exposition Internationale du Surréalisme consisted of 1,200 coal sacks suspended from the ceiling over a stove) and including artists of the 1960s and ’70s such as Marcel Broodthaers, Jannis Kounellis, Robert Smithson and Christian Boltanski.

Only by passing through these two sections can one ascend to the upper floors, where contemporary works are on view. Most of them concern not coal or mining alone but broader social and economic issues—
globalization, industrialization, deindustrialization—that mesh with those raised in the historical section. There are well-known works that fit tightly in this context: for example, Edward Burtynsky’s photographs of the new industrial landscape of Guangdong province in China, or the film version of Jeremy Deller’s The Battle of Orgreave (2001; co-directed with Mike Figgis), a re-enactment of a clash between British police and striking miners in 1984. But the emphasis on subject matter as the main criterion has the predictable effect of reducing artworks to illustrations of a curatorial concept. One piece that left a deeper impression was Sounds From Beneath, a video by Mikhail Karikis and Uriel Orlow, who worked with a choir of former miners to re-create the sounds heard while working deep underground. The sounds are unearthly, haunting, and yet, as these men render them, unquestionably musical; the profoundly dignified faces of the miners singing amid the desolate landscape of a mine speaks to an entire culture that has been lost with the idling of the mines. This sensitive collaboration is, as Gregos puts it, “a salvaging of memory, an ode, a tribute, and a requiem all at once.”

But such moments are rare in Manifesta 9.
Sounds From Beneath couldn’t have been made without the artistry of the choristers, men who don’t claim the title of artists. Isn’t it odd how sometimes the artistry of nonartists can surpass that of artists? This exhibition made that particularly clear to me, because some of the most remarkable works were in neither the contemporary nor the art-historical section but rather in the “heritage” portion of the show. I’m thinking of the embroideries made by coal miners’ wives, on loan from the Museum van de Mijnwerkerswoning (Museum of the Miner’s House) in Eisden, Belgium. There’s a hardheaded, almost Brechtian wisdom to some of the stitched sayings (not only in Dutch but in Spanish, Italian, Polish and any number of other languages, for Europe’s workers were nomadic by necessity long before the knowledge economy made it glamorous): “We can’t live from love alone,” reads one. “We need food on the table.” The makers of these pieces coordinated color and material, text and imagery, in ways that contemporary conceptual artists—admirers of Alighiero Boetti’s embroideries, for example—might envy. If only the embroideries had been exhibited as artworks among other artworks, instead of being isolated as artifacts. Such compartmentalization is typical of Manifesta 9. Although ostensibly an exhibition that mirrors its context, its isolation within a single hulking structure far from the center of town guarantees that visitors from elsewhere experience little if anything of its contemporary context in present-day Genk.

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There was no risk of being isolated at my next stop: Paris, where the third edition of La Triennale is on view at the Palais de Tokyo through August 26. Organized by Okwui Enwezor (a veteran of the biennials of Johannesburg and Gwangju, not to mention Documenta 11) 
together with a team of four younger curators, it’s been given the subtitle “Intense Proximity.” The exhibition concerns the links between art and anthropology, and “the preponderance of ethnographic poetics in the work of contemporary artists.” It includes ethnographic photography by the likes of Marcel Griaule and Claude Lévi-Strauss and images of African sculpture made in 1935 by the young Walker Evans, alongside a wide range of contemporary works whose relation to the overall theme is sometimes evident (as in the contributions of, say, Georges Adéagbo, Eugenio Dittborn or Trinh T. Minh-ha) and sometimes enigmatic. This ambiguity is the strength of the exhibition: creating an atmosphere in which the border between art and ethnography becomes porous without demanding of each work that it illustrate this permeability. Rather, as Enwezor writes, the “salient question is how to live with disjunction.”

What is perhaps most surprising, and will likely remain most memorable for me, about this Triennale is its inclusion of a broad range of works by a few senior artists from Eastern Europe, most of them hardly known in the West: Ivan Kozaric, born in Croatia in 1921; Geta Bratescu, from Romania, born in 1926; and Ewa Partum, born in Poland in 1945. They are three very different artists, but united in their ability to work with modest means and delicate gestures yet great speculative reach. Even at its most abstract, their work breathes an air of mischief; the experimentalism is not systematic but mercurial. What might be said of Partum’s forcefully feminist works is as true of the more abstract pieces by Kozaric and Bratescu; even when they seem blunt, there’s an underlying irony and introversion—the route toward their targets is more devious than might at first be apparent. And so it is with many of the younger artists working today in formerly Communist countries, for instance the remarkable Dominik Lang, a Czech sculptor who also made a strong impression at the last Venice Biennale a year ago, or Bojan Fajfric, a Serbian video artist. At La Triennale both are showing works that reflect ruefully on the lives of their fathers.

Yet as thoughtful and exploratory as Enwezor’s Triennale is, it’s not an entirely successful exhibition. The problem? As is so often the case with big exhibitions, somewhere along the way its organizers lost a sense of scale. With more than 150 artists included, the roster of this Triennale should have been reduced by at least a third to maintain a keen sense of structure, not to mention a consistent level of quality. Apparently the Palais de Tokyo is proud of how its recent renovation has greatly expanded its available square footage by making its basement usable. But the basement still feels and smells like a basement, and I couldn’t shake the suspicion that almost everything installed in it was a didactic afterthought to the rest of the show.

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