Illusions at the Guggenheim
The Guggenheim is offering icy cool respite from the oppressive New York heat until September 5th in The Shapes of Space. The centerpiece of which without doubt for me is the Alyson Shotz glacial glass curtain showcased on the ground floor which is neither made of glass nor really 3-dimensional. Illusions, it turns out, cannot fool the camera!
Yuken Teruya's origami inspired trees are by far the most delicate pieces at the exhibition while Mika Rottenberg's video Dough is mesmerizing and grotesque. Tiny tots and oldsters alike crowd in the little wooden compartment and sit it out for a full cycle watching lumps of dough being kneaded and processed by gigantic hands.
copyright Guggenheim.orgOne of Teruya's trees
Unfortunately not all of the pieces on show are of such fascinating shallowness (as Sholtz's work) or weirdness (as Rottenberg's) or beauty (as Teruya's). And at moments walking down the spiral I cannot help but give thanks to the spiral structure of the rotunda which only on rare occasions (the Russian exhibition for one) has managed to be overwhelmed by the art.
Labels: Guggenheim, Rottenberg, Sholtz, Teruya
posted by abha @ 9:46 AM
4 Comments:
Illusion/s -
(here a shimmering curtain of silvery cool respite) -
a shape changer:
pleasing,
irresistible,
false,
reality's artful adversary...
recreating itself endlessly
through us - its untiring fabricators.
Thanks for the art and for all its unique illusory forms.
priti a
Congratulations on the paperback release of 'That Summer...' August 14 - a significant date for you. Very happy for you.
Cheers,
a well wisher
Ooty’s thread flower garden
Speaking of art and illusion and handcrafted trees, I am reminded of our recent visit to Ooty’s thread flower garden. I had not heard of it until our son read about in a travel guide on Ooty and told us that it was certainly worth a visit. I dismissed it casually, assuming that it is one of those places that are given exaggerated mention to attract the undiscerning tourist. After my ludicrous attempt to row a boat on Ooty lake, we walked to the large rectangular shed-like room that housed the thread garden. Irrationally, I had imagined it would be outdoors and was completely unprepared for the unique indoor floral world that I was going to experience. The entry ticket was very reasonable – Rs. 10, a little over the price of a milky syrupy cup of tea. The ticket for using the camera was Rs. 15. Foolishly, I left the camera at the counter. The man who issued our tickets did ask me rather surprised whether I really did not wish to take my camera inside. I was not expecting anything remarkable so I said I was sure I wouldn’t need it. He looked at me, unconvinced. My son was happy. “You have far too many pictures of flowers already. How many more before you stop? This is madness.” “It is beautiful madness, you must admit. No more taking pictures for now. I am just going to look at the flowers this time.” As soon as we entered, I was dazzled by the profusion of colour and struck by the stillness of the plant life/verdant world. Soon a voice intruded jarringly. A man at the entrance began to explain the salient features of the garden in an elocution voice. He reeled the facts in a booming breathless declamatory tone. There was just the three of us. It seemed unnecessary and unnatural to talk to us as if he were addressing a large gathering of people. This is what I gathered from his lecture-like introduction to this singular artificial flower garden with its plants, creepers, vines, patches of grass and lotus ponds. Antony Joseph was its creator. It had taken 50 specially trained artists more than twelve years to complete this visual delight. Stiff pieces of cardboard were cut and shaped into leaves and flowers. These were then wound with thread meticulously and dexterously. Steel or copper wires were used for the stems, which were then wound with the appropriate colour of thread. No needle or mechanical aid was used. Nearly 400 shades of plain embroidery threads, 60 million meters long, were used to create150 different varieties of flowers. Within myself, I praised the meticulous workmanship, flawless patience and devotion to beauty of the artists. Walking along the railing, I took in this fairy-tale world of undiminished colour. I tried to identify the flowers that would neither fade nor wilt – time would pass them by and visitors would marvel at this charming defiance of the imprints of the footsteps of time. Any moment I expected diminutive fairy tale creatures to trip nimbly among these flowers. Three more visitors entered the garden. The guide’s voice blared out the information and a Tamil song played loudly from a nearby shop. These auditory assailants ruined the atmosphere. I wish silence were a necessary fee for entry. I also wish the lighting could be improved to enhance the ambiance of this world. As I walked out, I saw samples of these flowers for sale. At the counter, encased in transparent plastic boxes, these flowers did not look life-like. They were bright and lovely – a tribute to the artist’s patience and industry but unmistakably artificial. I selected a plant with three flowers - a flaming orange, a warm yellow and a jubilant red. I don’t recognize the flowers (are they daisies?) but I brought back a handful of ageless colour into my home.
priti a
Random thoughts
Life as maya or illusion or "the painted veil": “lift not the painted veil that which we call life.”
Art creates the illusions you describe here: the second painted veil - mimicking, recording, defying, recreating or reshaping the first one.
All is illusory: all the ideas,the sensations, the phenomena, the shapes and forms that attract and bind us. Do not be fooled by these. Look beyond the illusion, say the sages.
How can we know what awaits us behind the veil? Suppose there is no transcendent vision or suppose we are unprepared for it and fear what lies behind (the vast unknown)?
Is there a thread that connects us all? Is this belief illusory?
Which blindfold is one to remove or how many before one can truly see?
All I know is this: beautiful illusions become nightmares if one does not see them as passing amusements or temporary anchors and holds fast to them for lasting support (hollow and weak).
p
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