A friend who moved to town a number of years ago, intending to live out one of the various myths of New York living (in his case, showing up with the proverbial $100 and the clothes on his back — a gutsy move no doubt, but one that was abetted by our couch and steady fiscal underwriting — with the goal of becoming a star; he’s getting close, so there is something to be said about chasing dreams), and just after he got here, he spoke rather arrogantly about how he was truly going to consume all that the city offered in its rich tapestry of arts and culture, in a way that we were evidently failing. We had all gone to college in a southern backwater, and then lived there a short while. Therefore, the contrast of what was available here bode well for a transformation that was incomprehensible to our heretofore provincial lives.
Of course, as any wage-slave liberal arts grad learns, it’s easier said than done. The spring our friend arrived coincided with the Biennial, and we smiled chidingly when we predicted that, unemployed and living smack in the middle of Manhattan was no guarantee (relating the experience of looking at listings, thinking ‘oh, I have weeks to do that’ and then of course not — the worst example of this being the Gerhard Richter at the Dia, which was up for nine months without successfully inducing our attendance). And of course it wasn’t. Almost ten years later, we aren’t sure he’s been to a single Biennial.
We have learned, thanks to the intercession of other, more determined friends, that it takes a certain amount of focus and attentiveness to make it to this or that show. And thus it was with such focus that we trekked up to Grand Central to catch the Rudolf Stingel show before it closed.
The Stingel installation is a 27,000 square foot carpet that fills Vanderbilt Hall (which is the hall you pass through if you are entering from 42nd Street). Stingel refers to much of his work as painting, though it is typically created using actual or perverted forms of manufacturing. In this case, it is a custom carpet, derived from a stock pattern typically used in hotels. The repeat area is several flowers of varying sizes, set against a variegated background. It’s hard to discern where the intervention is, aside from the coloration, though, given some contract interiors work these days, that too is open to question. The palette is muted pink, blue and beige, with the flowers starkly offset in black. Looking squarely at it is slighly more intense than a typical carpet, and garish. Viewed obliquely, the overall effect is surprisingly subdued. The limestone of Vanderbilt Hall is richer in hue, the net effect being that for a moment, one might think they walked into a well-intentioned maintenance idea gone awry.
The sheer magnitude of the piece (a characteristic of a number of the installations that have been there over the past few years) is impressive, but it is competing with the most commanding public space in New York. Thus, aside from perhaps a direct assualt on the majesty that is Grand Central, we can’t imagine what might stand at least as an equal to the space.
The peice is also undermined by the limited access: the transverse doors are closed, and when we were there, the eastern portion was roped off by TensaBarriers, creating a stark visual detriment. Lastly, and not insignficantly, we gave up being capable art critics a long time ago, resigning ourselves to the complex intersection of hieghtened aesthetic sensibilities overlaid with a liberal dose of postmodern cynicism, so any judgement is suspect and hopelessly subjective. All we could think to do was have a seat.
This wasn’t so much a test of art, but also public life. We have found, to a disappointing degree, that many places don’t like it when you sit on the floor (a similar experiment in Union Station, in DC, resulted the Privileged White Guy treatment — a guard asking in a careful voice ‘are you all right sir?’ instead of poking us with the butt end of a baton). But both the art and the sanctity of GCT survived us placing our ass squarely in the middle of a big piece of art. What is so striking every time we visit is how the space manages to absorb noise and create a subduded, warm, atmosphere. The carpet certainly helps this, and it is a retrograde, rec-room kind of experience to sit with arms splayed, leaning back and watching the late afternoon commuters hustle through. And whereas on strictly formal terms, we have a ‘no decision’ on the art, we think you should go and judge for yourself, if for no other reason than to go an hang out there for an hour or two. Rather than rushing through to catch a train (should you actually have any reason to go north of the city), it’s a wonderful place to wander around. And, like us, after a quiet oasis of art, go and get good and drunk at the Campbell Apartment. It ain’t cheap, but it’s worth it. You’d better hurry, since the carpet comes up at the end of the week.
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Magic Carpet Ride.
A friend who moved to town a number of years ago, intending to live out one of the various myths of New York living (in his case, showing up with the proverbial $100 and the clothes on his back — a gutsy move no doubt, but one that was abetted by our couch and steady fiscal underwriting — with the goal of becoming a star; he’s getting close, so there is something to be said about chasing dreams), and just after he got here, he spoke rather arrogantly about how he was truly going to consume all that the city offered in its rich tapestry of arts and culture, in a way that we were evidently failing. We had all gone to college in a southern backwater, and then lived there a short while. Therefore, the contrast of what was available here bode well for a transformation that was incomprehensible to our heretofore provincial lives.
Of course, as any wage-slave liberal arts grad learns, it’s easier said than done. The spring our friend arrived coincided with the Biennial, and we smiled chidingly when we predicted that, unemployed and living smack in the middle of Manhattan was no guarantee (relating the experience of looking at listings, thinking ‘oh, I have weeks to do that’ and then of course not — the worst example of this being the Gerhard Richter at the Dia, which was up for nine months without successfully inducing our attendance). And of course it wasn’t. Almost ten years later, we aren’t sure he’s been to a single Biennial.
We have learned, thanks to the intercession of other, more determined friends, that it takes a certain amount of focus and attentiveness to make it to this or that show. And thus it was with such focus that we trekked up to Grand Central to catch the Rudolf Stingel show before it closed.
The Stingel installation is a 27,000 square foot carpet that fills Vanderbilt Hall (which is the hall you pass through if you are entering from 42nd Street). Stingel refers to much of his work as painting, though it is typically created using actual or perverted forms of manufacturing. In this case, it is a custom carpet, derived from a stock pattern typically used in hotels. The repeat area is several flowers of varying sizes, set against a variegated background. It’s hard to discern where the intervention is, aside from the coloration, though, given some contract interiors work these days, that too is open to question. The palette is muted pink, blue and beige, with the flowers starkly offset in black. Looking squarely at it is slighly more intense than a typical carpet, and garish. Viewed obliquely, the overall effect is surprisingly subdued. The limestone of Vanderbilt Hall is richer in hue, the net effect being that for a moment, one might think they walked into a well-intentioned maintenance idea gone awry.
The sheer magnitude of the piece (a characteristic of a number of the installations that have been there over the past few years) is impressive, but it is competing with the most commanding public space in New York. Thus, aside from perhaps a direct assualt on the majesty that is Grand Central, we can’t imagine what might stand at least as an equal to the space.
The peice is also undermined by the limited access: the transverse doors are closed, and when we were there, the eastern portion was roped off by TensaBarriers, creating a stark visual detriment. Lastly, and not insignficantly, we gave up being capable art critics a long time ago, resigning ourselves to the complex intersection of hieghtened aesthetic sensibilities overlaid with a liberal dose of postmodern cynicism, so any judgement is suspect and hopelessly subjective. All we could think to do was have a seat.
This wasn’t so much a test of art, but also public life. We have found, to a disappointing degree, that many places don’t like it when you sit on the floor (a similar experiment in Union Station, in DC, resulted the Privileged White Guy treatment — a guard asking in a careful voice ‘are you all right sir?’ instead of poking us with the butt end of a baton). But both the art and the sanctity of GCT survived us placing our ass squarely in the middle of a big piece of art. What is so striking every time we visit is how the space manages to absorb noise and create a subduded, warm, atmosphere. The carpet certainly helps this, and it is a retrograde, rec-room kind of experience to sit with arms splayed, leaning back and watching the late afternoon commuters hustle through. And whereas on strictly formal terms, we have a ‘no decision’ on the art, we think you should go and judge for yourself, if for no other reason than to go an hang out there for an hour or two. Rather than rushing through to catch a train (should you actually have any reason to go north of the city), it’s a wonderful place to wander around. And, like us, after a quiet oasis of art, go and get good and drunk at the Campbell Apartment. It ain’t cheap, but it’s worth it. You’d better hurry, since the carpet comes up at the end of the week.