
The Barbican Art Gallery- Radical Nature
Art and Architecture for a Changing Planet 1969-2009
Forty acres of baffling axis: seven floors of future-heritage; it must be the Barbican Estate, London. In a quiet foyer of the Barbican's dedicated Arts Centre, staircases spiral and elevators hover. The Arts Centre can shift itself against the grain of gravity, or else impose its own depth charge. Within this colossal transfer-unit (moving us through planes, trajectory, space), the Radical Nature exhibition is nestled.
The sense of mutated elevation continues inside the exhibition- trees grow from the walls, grasslands float on wheeled trucks. Upon entering the exhibition one instantly walks into the territory of a guardian-wolf, its eyes and nose raised; what seems to be merely a fashionable piece of taxidermy, standing on a two-wheeled trailer (it seems as if the animal might be driven away at any moment to a new freak-show) has more significance than that: Mark Dion’s tightly-packed corpse (situated in sniffing distance from the gift shop) warns us visitors away from the cataloguing and commodification of nature, urging a native caution in regards to the roots and branches on display. The exo-cadaver of the wolf (not nature at all, but a sculpture slid inside a hide) possesses a realistic sadness; it knows better than us the dangers of holding on for too long to a lifeform that needs to die.
Out of the wolf’s glass sight, and away from its cautionary message, we walk on to more fertile sections. On the left, chicken wire pens of British crop specimens, a re-staging of 1972’s Full Farm (the show delves as far back as 1969). In the centre of the gallery, a bubble-chain: a series of plastic pods floating with the assistance of wires and hooks, forming the plan of Air-Port-City, Tomas Saraceno’s situationist utopia: a visionary architectural model of a flying cell of conjoined cities and transport terminals, ‘similar in status to airplanes in flight, which are bound by international law rather than the rules of one country’. The un-realistic construction of the piece, from transparent plastic sacks, adds another level of interpretation to the model, another shift from the ‘real’; its position inside the Barbican, a realised utopian complex, another.
A room on the left holds plans for symbiotic buildings by the Parisian architectural firm R&Sie(n). Amongst the thin veins of data, blueprints and schema that climb and spread over the white gallery walls- mirroring the viral shoots and nodes of the creeping life that their architecture ‘clones’- rests a snapshot of a mutating architectural mission- unstable and necessary. Amongst the patterns (it seems wrong to call them blueprints) flow mutations of repetitive elements, organic graphs eating into themselves, cloning, hybridising, grafting, perpetual. From the unstable substitutions, the genetic cartographies and territorial alterations, the ‘plans’ of ‘structures’ stutter smoothly out of the blueprints to become something else; the buildings themselves, mirroring the topography of their sites, are colonised and made invisible by invasive plants. Truly impressive.
In a dim room a recycled plywood/MDF bench faces a projection of two films by Robert Smithson. Spiral Jetty, barely heard through the musty fuzz of the audio, nevertheless impresses with its Jurassic maps and hovering camera angles. Spiral Jetty itself is a monumental earthwork on the Great Salt Lake in Utah, USA, constructed with black basalt rocks and earth in 1970- a 1,500 foot long coil that stretches from the land out into the water of the lake. Spiral Jetty is best viewed from above, and an image search on the web will uncover certain photographs that appear to show a blue-green sun (the rounded edge of land) spouting a sun-storm of white flame (the jetty) into red space (the translucent lake).
A grass hillock rests on the gallery floor nearby- as if the peak of a hillside had been surgically sliced and implanted here. Hans Haacke’s ‘real-time system’ Grass Grows, dating from 1969, is alive and fresh, one of the pieces of the exhibition which is nature, regardless of its surroundings. The mound seems to be pushing up through the floor, making the viewer cast their eyes around the Barbican space and view the apparently solid and grounded floor with new eyes. The piece creates a sense of reassertive nature, or else highlights our un-natural level of height, here in the Barbican centre, as in the multi-levels of the surrounding city also.
The next ‘exhibit’ is one of the boldest and most real/unreal. The deep-brown trunks of tropical trees- again, real specimens- grow slowly in height and girth under a sustaining field of artificial light. The thing about this authentic 16-metre-square rainforest segment, however, is that it grows on its side- the forest ‘carpet’ is a base-board situated at 45 degrees to the gallery floor, through which the trees are inserted, their roots immersed in nutrients behind. A square of whispering, weeping forest drapes a leafy canopy gracefully downward through the air, brushing the floor. Suggestive of hurricane detritus or jungle warfare after-effects, Fallen Forest (2006) gives the viewer a one-on-one experience with nature that many will have never had. Actual rainforest, in the flesh; the stuff that everyone talks about so much and that most people vaguely accept as somehow key to the existence of the world, is encountered through a simple physical distortion; a first-experience that, possibly, questions the first-contact with nature that most people experience, occurring through the medium of HD Satellite television and Ipod LCD imagery, or even the banal language of postcard pictures; the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, &c. In a more obvious way, the forest segment is a brought-forth commodity; a ‘bought-back’ forest; shipped timber; or waste from rainforest destruction, the primal form of office paper. The forest seems to grow towards us in attack-mode, facing us like a mute rhinoceros, defensive and instinctively expressive. The great thing about this and other pieces is that the natural forms do much of their own talking, and their presence is the most convincing argument.
Elsewhere on the ground floor, a room of mirrors echoes and reverberates a square of lush inflorescence into a shaky and mis-printed infinity. Another criticism of artificiality and reproduction, and of false space. An outdoor garden on one of the Barbican balconies gives us our first taste of fresh air.
Upstairs there is less greenery, and more architectural, photographic and performance work. Here one has the strange vantage point of seeing Fallen Forest from above- on the ground, we could walk its length and feel that we had climbed to the top of a rainforest; up here we can fly around the side of the forest, reaching the canopy only by a strange circuit on the upstairs mezzanines. None of this surveying of the forest is done in natural or easy movements.
Philippe Rahm’s indoor installation Pulmonary Space is a baggy form with arms that lead to wind instruments; when blown, the bag inflates at different points. A video of a György Ligeti piece being played ‘into’ it (Ten Pieces for Wind Quartet, 1968) is shown behind the saggy form, along with a chunk of printed theory concerning Hegel, idealism, and physicality.
The 1970s design group Ant Farm are represented by Dolphin Embassy (1974-1978), a funny/serious project (documented with video, designs and promotional material) to promote interspecies communication with dolphins, including a sea-top embassy. An interview between a human ambassador and a dolphin, to see how the dolphins feel about all this, says it all. Ant Farm are particularly admirable for their forward-thinking sense of the ridiculous whilst acknowledging the profound and the important; this is one of the valuable exhibits which question the natural art movement in a major way. Artists such as the British Bruce Mclean made similar jabs at land art in the 1960s whilst still creating ‘profound’ works; Pulmonary Space also questions the possibility of ‘connecting’ in any real way with nature, denouncing philosophical idealism (and romanticism) and claiming physical materiality as its successor.
Next, a construction material. Wolf Hilbertz’s original process of ocean-based mineral accretion promised a natural, regenerative material that was stronger than Portland cement. In the mid-1970s he trademarked Biorock® and drafted his model of Autopia, a spiral shaped island accreted underwater- basically a frame that develops hard ‘muscle’ in the form of a mineral bulk attaching and surrounding itself to it. A scale model of this island is displayed along with sections of life-size Biorock®, in its barnacle- and skeletal-like manifestation.
Elsewhere, Joseph Beuys’ ‘healing and regenerative’ work Honeypump at the Workplace (1977) is on display- two tons of honey being pumped through two ship’s motors lubricated with margarine. Apparently ‘the honey embodied energy as well as the nutritional value of a natural substance produced by an ideal collaborative community’.
Luke Howler’s Bogman Palmjaguar (2007) is a dirty-misty land/mind-scape documentary film about the mental state of the ancient bogland of Flow Country in North East Scotland, as well as its inhabitant, Bogman Bluequartz Palmjaguar, diagnosed as schizophrenic by the local authorities. Definitely worth watching, the film's projection in a very dark room, in-between the gallery walls, makes one feel that the bogland doesn’t exist in this world, just as this viewing room doesn’t seem to.
Lara Almarcegui has kindly printed booklets for visitors to take away and peruse; ‘Guide to the Wastelands of the Lea Valley’ gives us basic photographs and magazine-style histories of East London’s Lea Valley canal ruins, an area popular with artists and given significance by the impending London Olympics, but covered more definitively and in more splendid detail by the writer Iain Sinclair.
Elsewhere Tue Greenfort showcases his camera-traps, urban ghost-catchers disguised with plastic bags and soda-cups which contain a disposable camera with flash, triggered when a fox nibbles and tugs at the frankfurter attached by string. Photographs are displayed of the surprised foxes, caught in the act- another suggestion of animals as being elsewhere, like the wolf-skin; only mindless vegetable matter can be caught and taken into this gallery, where they rear towards the artificial ceiling from their unnatural bed of air. Greenfort’s Wardian Case (Alustar-Sonatural) (2007/9) is also here- a flatpack green house containing mass-produced orchids.
Radical Nature is a good collection, notable for its international scope and its focus upon the uncontrollable, even as it it cuts, moves and stimulates nature. The lack of indulgence in artists such as Richard Long and Andy Goldsworthy is a good indicator of the exhibition’s focus on dialogue, warning and interrogation; the inclusion of popular artists like these might have added an extra aesthetic appeal to the show, but, as it stands, the exhibition is distinguished by a respect, admiration and awe of nature, in which the place of humans is ambiguous. The visitor sees snapshots, moments, surprises- the glanced portions invoke nature as a wider force despite their disparateness. The autonomy of nature is the centrepiece here, and our place within it is merely as another mutation, a growth. The name says it all- this isn’t a show about shining beauty, but the radical intersection of nature and human projects.
Note- the gallery guide is printed by ‘an energy efficient stencil duplicator’, with soy inks, on 100% recycled paper, and is printed in batches to avoid large-scale waste. The gallery is open daily from 11am-8pm (Wednesday 6pm, Thursday 10pm). Tickets are £8 for adults and £6 online/concessions. Radical Nature runs until 18th October.
The Barbican Centre, Silk Street, London EC2Y 8DS
Nearest tube- Barbican/Moorgate.
www.barbican.org.uk/radical_nature
Posted under Eco Reviews, EcoWarriors, Events, Gardening & Outdoors, Lifestyle & Fashion
This post was written by Barnaby Tidman on September 25, 2009
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