Exhibition review:
Richard Tuttle: I Don’t Know. The Weave of Textile Language
“You make something in order not to have
to sign it. It should be already a better signature than any signature you
could possibly put on it.”
The turbine hall in the tate modern is a industrial
cathedral sized space. Previous installations as part of the Unilever series by
famed artists have included Louise Bourgeois’ ginormous malevolent spider
sculpture and Olafur Eliasson popular ‘weather project’ sun like orb.
Hyundai have committed to the
longest funded programme of turbine hall commissions, 10 years. This new series
starts in the autumn. In the meantime, the current exhibit is of a site
specific piece by American artist Richard Tuttle. Entitled ‘I don’t know’- the weave
of textile language’ is his largest work to date. It coincides with a
retrospective of his work currently showing at the Whitechapel Gallery in
London.
Richard Tuttle a contemporary
American artist whose work came to prominence as part of the post-minimalist
movement in the 1960s, continues to forge his own path. Usually known for small
scale minimalist work, often sculptural made pieces, using found objects,
things overlooked. He uses sculpture especially textiles to draw our attention
to the space and the world around us.
Like other artists confronted with
the challenge of the huge space, Tuttle has avoided the height issue by
exploiting half the length of the hall with a suspended sculpture level with
the walkway in the middle of the turbine hall. The concrete grey floor and high
ceiling space invite something colourful and contrasting.
The installation dangles motionless from the ceiling, lit
subtly, physically it is easily missed if walking from the Southwark ramp obscure by the
first floor walkway. The warm bright colours flag it up when you get closer.
Comprising of 8 interconnected wood
segments, brass screws gleaming where they fix the aeroplane wing like side-pieces
to a vertical centre piece. Like some strange winged sea creature, the central
part shapes like a globular S-shape with segments of wood slotted horizontally
along the vertical centre piece.
Draped over parts of the piece are matte stretchy pieces of manmade and natural fabric, invisibly pinned in places. Erratically folded, thicker mushroom-topped
layers cover the centre piece more completely that the side arms. Crimson and
orange, the colour scheme feels warm and matches the unvarnished unfussy brown
plywood.
There’s no sound other than the odd footstep along the
walkway that’ll stop briefly then carry on down the stairs, no shrieks, gasps.
I hear someone disparagingly say ‘So this is modern art?’ and walk on without
further comment. For such a large geometric piece in such an iconic place,
there’s a bizarre lack of intrigue from other visitors. This in itself becomes
the most intriguing part about the piece.
I walk over to the poster bearing information about the
titled work, feeling not so much deflated as underwhelmed. The size of the
piece fits the space. The colours warm up the surrounds on a dull February day.
But there’s a niggling annoyance.
I read that Tuttle likes to challenge what people see as
beautiful and is interested in the collaboration with textile artists whom he
commissioned the specially made fabric.
The Tate is visited by upto 5 million people a year. It’s
half term. I realise I’m expecting a busy packed hall noisily gabbing at a crowd
pleaser or shocker, or even an awe-inspired hush. But, however open minded I’m trying to be, I feel a
bit pissed off. I could imagine a grumpy visitor ranting, 'Who the hell is this yankee artist, coming over here with his
bits of plywood to our art gallery and he can’t even be arsed to finished what
he started?' What a waste of
space of an amazing space.
Tuttle I learn is known for his small subtle intimate works.
There’s subtle and there’s downright opaque and quizzical. Seeing the guts of a wooden mutant giant sea creature could qualify for some kind of surreal intimacy I guess.
There’s subtle and there’s downright opaque and quizzical. Seeing the guts of a wooden mutant giant sea creature could qualify for some kind of surreal intimacy I guess.
“looking at issues of perception
that can be extrapolated onto questions of perception in general”.
Oh good, that makes it so much more appealing and
intruiguing. Er hang on a sec. No it doesn’t.
Is it a vanity project lacking in vanity? Tuttle has said
about his work
“You make something in order not to have
to sign it. It should be already a better signature than any signature you
could possibly put on it.”
In which case, the signature appears to be an aspirational
indeciferable scrawl in cheap mass produced biro. From India. Indian ink?
I’m clearly either not perceptive or lacking questions.
So I start to create deliberate questions to try and give
the experience more of a chance and less judgement.
Is it a comment that you can’t glam anything up as the guts
will always show in the end? Oh so maybe the ambiguity has deeper meanings and
I’m being vacuous and superficial.
This piece if it’s referencing the people that made it, just
makes me think, are they on such poorly paid wages in India that they walked
out on a strike and there was never enough material made to cover the
sculpture.
My mind as always wanders stubbornly away from anything that
might be too pretentious into more farcical territories.
I wonder where the wood came from. Is it Indian plywood or would you ship in your artists wood. Oh, so maybe it’s a
comment on hard wood forests and deforestations. Or maybe it’s a comment that
Wickes is better than B&Q.
Maybe it’s a
statement about a wrestling with creativity and how textiles is a metaphorical
language for man’s struggles. That wrestling with an imaginary sea creature to
cover it in fabric isn’t as easy as you would think, like trying to dry a small
wriggling toddler who refuses to wear their pyjamas to bed. At some stage you
have to give up the fight and realise it’s probably not important. Is that the
message?!
Maybe it’s a comment that they’re aren’t enough sea-horse
shaped floating wooden winged things in galleries these days. Is this man on
drugs I then think. He did get started in the 60s. Hang on, am I meant to be
questioning how drug addled a man who grew up in New Jersey is?
It is making me question what is beautiful and what I know,
but I realise I don’t really care about being challenged with this as it is so
unappealing and my judgemental conservatism just makes me shrug my shoulder with a 'meh'.
Clearly, anything can be laden with symbolism, cliché, our
own projected memories and emotional responses.
Tuttle seems to have created something so underwhelming it’s
not even intriguing.
It feels
apathetic, so half-hearted and insignificant despite it’s size and boldness of
colour that I don’t even have the energy or inclination to scratch my head in
bafflement.
Since returning home, I think the niggling frustration about
the lack of impact is possibly covering a need to be shocked, challenged by
something. For something to trigger an extreme emotion, calm or anger or scorn.
I read later that
“This room and this work are
simultaneously arguing for the support of ambiguity because you just need to go
out the doors and you enter a world that is constantly trying to crush the
ambiguous in every way”
Life can be
underwhelming, ambiguous and half-hearted so to be reminded of this in someone’s
work, might be a message he’s trying to give, but I would argue it’s not a
particularly inspiring, long-lived or interesting one. But
he’s done it successfully if that’s what he’s after. I don't necessarily want a mirror held up to ambiguity in this way, I 'm feeling childish and wanting something more accessible and classically beautiful. How banal.
I realise I’m more aching to get upstairs and see the
potentially depressing exhibition on conflict photography, or stare into the
dead eyes of Marlene Dumas eery paintings. As I walk under the piece trying to
give it another go, my mood’s lifted by 2 kids gurning for a photo. I look down
at a piece of red tape stuck on the floor and realise the patterns in the
concrete are awkwardly more mesmerising that the piece above my head. I’m more
interested in the connection between the people that laid this floor and the
unpredictable random patterns that result from such a utilitarian generic
worldwide building tool. Or some such pretentious art speak. The language of
textiles wove no such spell on me.
Richard Tuttle: I Don’t
Know . The Weave of Textile Language
Tate Modern:
Exhibition
14 October 2014 – 6
April 2015
Turbine Hall
References
Quotations:
1.
http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-modern/exhibition/richard-tuttle-i-dont-know-weave-textile-language
Background reading:
2.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/art-reviews/11159082/Richard-Tuttle-Turbine-Hall-Tate-Modern-review-evokes-nothing-whatsoever.htmlpdf
3.
http://www.theartsdesk.com/visual-arts/richard-tuttle-tate-modern-whitechapel-gallery
There
is, as ever with ticket-holders-only minimalism, a very fine line between the
mindfully simple and the simple-minded
http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2014/feb/02/martin-creed-whats-the-point-hayward-review
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