I am in the cafe courtyard at Kunsthaus in Zurich, Switzerland. I have just visited the gallery and I am enjoying a glass of bitter lemon and listening to loud machinery operating in a nearby street. There are fig trees in the courtyard, a mural, and a sculpture. The ground is covered in loose gravel and the silver metal chairs have blue and white striped cushions on them.
I am not alone in the courtyard. An older man, with white hair and a bald spot, sits at the next table sipping coffee and reading a book. Two women have just entered the courtyard; mother and daughter possibly. One carries a tray with two cups. As they sit, both slip off their shoes and giggle with relief. One, the younger, is putting a fresh corn pad on her left foot.
I know how they feel. My feet and lower legs are also suffering from walking around this large gallery, and standing before it's many fine works.
Kunsthaus is an impressive gallery that strikes a nice balance between works of old masters, and a comprehensive collection of contemporary art.
The first exhibition I viewed featured works by German photographer Thomas Struth. I knew nothing about his work, and to be honest, I entered the exhibition on the basis that his surname is an Australian colloquial exclamation. I found massive prints, rich in colour and detail, on stark white walls in substantial exhibition spaces. His works were grouped by theme; architecture, machinery, landscape, street scenes, family portraits, and interestingly, photos of art gallery visitors reacting to art. I liked the fact that seemingly ordinary subjects became objects of interest and beauty once in the lens of Struth's camera.
From there I entered the wing housing the permanent collection, with something akin to dread. I have realised something about myself recently. The works of the old masters no longer interest me the way they once did. I was initially surprised by this discovery, but I understand it. These ancient works don't have any relevance to my contemporary life and views, and they provoke nothing more than boredom.
As I entered the first room, already mentally rolling my eyes, I heard a voice call out. I couldn't see anyone, although the voice sounded close. I then noticed a piece of carpet had been torn roughly away, to reveal a screen in the floor, smaller than the palm of my hand. A naked woman, being devoured by flames was beseeching, holding her arms up, begging to be rescued. "Get me out of here," I imagined her calling. (She spoke Swiss-German). I could relate. Get me out of here indeed. I scooted through the rooms filled with works by fusty old masters and found the contemporary collection.
Some of it I hated, and some of it I loved. At the very least it provoked a reaction other than boredom. And I broke a rule - despite possessing what I like to think of as a free and easy attitude, I am actually a stickler for rules. The rule I broke? I touched some of the scupltures. There's something about 3d works. They're so textural they're almost begging to be touched. And I really did need to satisfy my curiosity about the work titled "Silent Grey Horse" just to establish if it was made from genuine horse hide. It was.
I did spend some time with the Impressionists too. Monet, Chagall, Van Gogh, and admired the works of Picasso and Dali within the Kunsthaus collection.
The last exhibition I visited was by Albanian video artist Adrian Paci. After the exquisite intensity of discovering the work of French video artist Sylvie Blocher (refer earlier blog) I had high hopes for Paci's exhibition Motion Picture(s). Those hopes were quickly dashed though. Kunsthaus promoted the works as "addressing topics like migration, globalization and cultural identity and uses compelling images to demonstrate the effects of exile, war and social upheaval on the human subject."
Paci is apparently an internationally renowned artist. Maybe so. On the basis of what I saw at Kunsthaus, I'd have to say that I just don't get it. Stop motion scenes of a wedding? Yawn. A giant yarn reel on it's side in the middle of a room? WTF? Only the tawdry, amateurish portrayal of a porn peddler in an Albanian village raised any interest, and that was mild at best.
I guess that's the thing about art - one person's art is another person's great big waste of time. Love it or loathe it, I celebrate the fact that we're free to create it, and people are free (with the exception of admission fees) to see it.
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