We went to the new ICA yesterday. (And I forgot my camera, so I had to steal this pretty photo from here.)
We had a nice time. But then, we're still so freshly in love with the city that anytime we get out, explore, and try something new, we have a nice time.
So, from an exploring Boston perspective, my first impressions were: flashy, shiny new building! The little boy in me says "whee," and wants to climb all through it like a jungle-gym.
And then the adult in me wonders how it will age.
But what's the deal with this seedy, run-down neighborhood? There's a World Trade Center around here, and the iconic Anthony's Pier Four restaurant, but other than that there's just rough industry, wasted space, and severe-tire-damage stretches of roadway. (So this is why there are so many Hummers in the city - urban driving is like off-road driving.) The big, empty parking lot with weed filled cracks and potholes isn't encouraging, either.
[Digression: I can't believe Menino wants to move City Hall down here. As much as I hate the old one, building another shiny new building where nobody can get to it is hardly serving the public. And as unpleasant as it is to drive here, the alternative - a subway-transfer-to-bus ride - is much worse. Not to mention that it actually costs more to take public transportation than it does to drive a gas-guzzling 8 cylinder luxury car and pay for parking. Moving City Hall out of reach of it just gives me another reason to hate that legacy-seeking megalomaniac that is our mayor.]
So after seeing the pictures and reading the articles, the first thing that struck me as we pulled up was how small it seemed. Flashy and impressive, sure, but utterly dwarfed by the harbor on one side and the bleak stretch of parking lot on the other.
Just inside, Chiho Aoshima's The Divine Gas catches the eye. I'm encouraged. I like figural art and bright colors. But than I realize that the painting is about farting. "She is cleansing the world with her farts," I learn later, reading through the pamphlet. So even if modern art can be pretty again, it still has to be about excretion, I guess.
Before we can take in the mural, though, we're accosted by an ICA employee who really wants us to become museum members. It's $95 for a couple, for the year. Well, we'd really like to look around first before we decide. He counters that the $24 it'll cost us for today's visit is a significant chunk of our annual membership fee. We're OK with that. If we like the place well enough, we'll be happy to pay the extra $24, and if we don't, then we're not out most of a Benjamin.
Finally he retreats. But he tells us that if we do decide to join after all, he can apply today's ticket price to our membership. "It'll just be a lot more work for me, because I'll have to go through two different computers," he says.
Sure. Nothing like hitting you with a hard-sell while your eyes are still adjusting. And then telling you there's no reason you should have fallen for the hard sell anyway.
The art, well, it was fun. A massive wall display of twist-ties was kind of evocative for the bits of discarded consumer culture that were woven through it. Another wall of living flowers mounted in an irrigation system smelled sweetly, and got double-kudos from the former florist in Donna. A collection of charred wood hanging from strings so that it appeared an explosion frozen in time, or maybe black falling snow frozen in time, kept my attention for a few minutes.
But everything felt like what I would have expected from a modern art gallery. There was no sense of surprise, despite the feeling that the artists were trying to shock you. They were just trying in the same way they've been trying for 40 years. In addition to the massive farting painting, there was a video installation of insects crawling over a urinal, and another of an endoscopy which you could watch from inside an echo chamber to listen to the sounds your bowels make. And minimalism was everywhere. We felt like we had fallen into the "Nuni" sketch of SNL.
The wife, who has some kind of degree in Art History, wonders why "modern" art is still stuck in the 1960s - 70s, with its reaction to representation and its desire to shock. She hopes that kids who grow up immersed in this will eventually swing the other way, and there are some encouraging signs this is happening.
As someone with no credentials, I can't help but feel that modern art is more about selling a personality and knowing the right people than about developing and expressing talent. Nothing wrong with making sales, of course. More power to them. But I can't help but feel a little cheated when I've paid to see work that was completed with so little effort now taking up such expensive, prestigious real estate. It's that feeling of, well, I could have done this.
Ah, but I didn't. And how accurate of you to point that out. That's why this guy's urinal videos are in the museum, and mine aren't. Still, I think most folks will admit to feeling a little perplexed jealousy when seeing such attention paid to things their children could have made.
Children's reactions were part of the fun of the day. Walking into a darkened video installation showing how robots navigate and move themselves, a child stared in open-mouthed wonder at the screen for all of three seconds before shouting, "Bor-ring!" The audience of politely quiet adults broke into laughter and walked out, as if they had been given permission.
Another child, maybe eight, repeatedly expressed to his mother a desire to touch the installation of hanging charred wood. His mother insisted that, no, it wasn't for touching. "Then what's it for?" he said. But she had enough faith in him to leave him there while she went into the next room. I caught his eye, made a "shush" sign, and gave a piece of charcoal a push. Horrified, the boy covered his mouth and ran after his mother. Then I realized that the 20-something kid standing behind me was actually an ICA guard wearing an ICA jacket. He politely looked away from me as I straightened my tie and walked out of the room.
One room had three laptop computers arranged on a table. They informed, with interactive web-sites, the work on the walls, which were digitally altered photographs of people playing in the arctic. The wife said, "I wonder if I can get myspace to come up on here?" And she did.
"Are you going to check your messages," I said.
"No," she said. "I just wanted to see if I could."
Minutes later a couple of college students walked into the room. "Oh look, Myspace!" said the girl. "I've been meaning to check my messages." And then, as if she had been given permission, that's what she sat down and did.
I don't know if the ICA is trying to foster these kinds of irreverent interactions. I hope they are, because they are succeeding, and I enjoy them.
Also, the view from that massive plate glass window is pretty amazing. (But is it Art?) And that little drop-down media center hanging down from the overhang does a nice job of inducing vertigo while turning the surface of the water below into a constantly changing display of art in itself. This was blended with a touch of humor as 3/4 of the Apple computers in there were displaying error messages. "Please notify an ICA associate," they all said, manifesting allegorical repletion of technological breakdown. The waves below represented the mother-ocean who will someday rise up and consume all of our efforts, no matter how innovative or modern. Or something like that.
Verdict: worth a visit, through probably not the annual membership.
