Wunderkammer: A Century of Curiosities at Museum of Modern Art, NY

(published 10/08 on artslant.com)

James Ensor, whose work appears in the Museum of Modern Art’s exhibition Wunderkammer: A Century of Curiosities, described the attic over his parent’s souvenir shop in Belgium as “dark and frightening … full of horrible spiders, curios, seashells, plants and animals from distant seas, beautiful chinaware, rust and blood-colored effects, red and white coral, monkeys, turtles, and dried mermaids”. Ensor drew a lasting inspiration from these stashed-away objects, and eventually moved his whole studio into the attic. Wunderkammer, organized by MoMA’s Sarah Suzuki, explores the pull that such perverse bric-a-brac has had over artists during the last century, in a display that recalls the curatorial and scientific inclinations of chambres des marveilles, a mid-sixteenth century phenomenon which MoMA calls “[an] ancestor of the museums of today”.

Works are hung salon-style in three rooms, grouped into loose categories that form some very interesting alliances (one wall is shared by Paul Klee, Louise Bourgeois, Peter Blake, and Rene Magritte). The categories are subjective; I counted creatures (plants, insects, and beasts of all stripes); freaks (bearded ladies and tattooed men); and medical phenomena (eyes, brains, and one singular vest made out of nipples) among them. Two actual “cabinets of curiosities” are on view—one that gathers tiny, impish objects from a diverse array of artists: a wax shoe sprouting human hair by Robert Gober; a Mind Expander/Fly Head Helmet (1968) by Haus-Rucker-Co; an Unhappy Meal (III, 2002) by Jake and Dinos Chapman; and two laundress aprons revealing male and female genitalia by Marcel Duchamp. The other, Mark Dion’s Cabinet (2004), is the result of an archeological dig Dion undertook in MoMA’s backyard which yielded modern urban ruins—radiator knobs, the soap dishes and checkered bathroom tile indigenous to Manhattan apartments, dented mailbox doors, stamped bricks, and rusty razor blades are all carefully arranged in stainless steel drawers. It’s a reminder that one day these items will be proper ruins, artifacts of an extinct metropolis.

With Wunderkammer, it feels as though Suzuki embarked on her own archeological dig, plucking talismans, objects d'art, and sketches from artists’ studios, or in a broader sense, their creative processes. By artfully re-contextualizing these artifacts, she has presented MoMA viewers with whole new avenues for wonder.

America and the Tintype at ICP

(published 09/08 on artslant.com)


America and the Tintype, now on view at the International Center of Photography, reinforces that, despite the rampant proliferation of arm’s-length self-portraits on today’s social networking sites, photography as a populist medium of self-expression and representation is nothing new. To say that the 1870s, when tintypes peaked in popularity, was far less saturated with images is a tremendous understatement. Yet somehow the people posing in these tiny, gem-like pictures had an innate savvy for photography’s ability to not just record, but also manipulate, reality.

These subjects of 130 years ago possessed the strange mix of idealism and cynicism that anyone creating an online profile on MySpace has today; they too sensed the possibility of photography to subvert stereotypes, build public personas, and create myths. Many of the tintypes ICP has chosen explore gender roles and social mores, and toy with the idea of “stepping out of bounds”: in one image, a daring group of women let their long hair down for the camera, while in others men strike macho boxing poses or slip into frilly dresses; there is even a startling image of two women wearing chains, their skirts embroidered with the word “Slave”.

A group of workers’ portraits on view are early precursors to August Sander; each subject is depicted wielding the tool of their trade, be it a banjo or a basket of fruit. On the opposite wall are images of leisure; because tintypes were cheaper than Daguerreotypes to produce, they were widely used by the middle and lower classes in a less formal manner, allowing a candid glimpse of life and humor in a time before snapshots were ubiquitous. In one photograph, a young woman in a fancy dress satirizes upper-class portraiture by primly posing in an outsized, garish rubber mask (Cindy Sherman’s great-great-grandmother?).

The ease and low cost of tintypes also allowed for narratives to emerge. In a succession of three photographs hung on the north wall of the gallery, a meeting between two men goes awry; the first frame depicts a handshake, the second, a shared drink, and the third, a hold-up.

America and the Tintype documents the creativity that emerged as a result of the first cheap photographic process. It marked the birth of vernacular photography, and similar bursts of democratic artistry have followed each advance in technology. The digital camera in everyone’s pocket today is simply a continuation of that phenomenon.