I've often thought that, when a character in a novel has fought in World War I or lost relatives in the Holocaust or something, it's simply a lazy author's shorthand for 'emotional depth'. The same could perhaps be said for Polish artist Miroslaw Balka's latest solo show at White Cube, Mason's Yard.
I generally like to look around an exhibition, then read the accompanying spiel, and then walk around again. That way you get two differing perspectives on the work: yours, with all your prejudices, and the artist's/gallery's, with all theirs.
So here goes: in the ground floor gallery is a rust-coloured octagonal steel structure. There's a naked lightbulb at the top, and a bucket half-full of bubbling red wine on the floor. It's kind of cool – like a grim, industrial climbing-frame. But obviously it's in an art gallery so you can't climb on it.
Downstairs is a new site-specific installation. It consists of a wooden fence that goes around the gallery, creating a narrow corridor around the outside of the room. Viewers have no option but to walk around and come out the other side. In another room is a dreary-looking black and white video projected onto a bed of salt on the gallery floor.
It's all very minimal and very humourless. But what does the spiel say? Oh, it's all about Treblinka. Does this make it important or interesting or engaging? We wander around the exhibition again, and the answer is: no. This is a dreary exhibition, with few ideas. Linking works to the Nazis is a cheap ruse, a lazy and an insulting one.
On the other side of Mason's Yard, Carey Young's 'Mutual Release' at the Thomas Dane temporary project space is still open, so we potter over to take a look. It's high-concept stuff, but I'll endeavour to explain it briefly. Young has worked closely with a team of lawyers specialising in media and intellectual property law to produce a series of works that explores the notion of the legal contract as artistic medium.
There's a video of a chap in a suit, periodically uttering isolated words, legal terminology like 'damages' and the like. On the wall are several official-looking documents that explore the contractual elements of what constitutes a work of art. Then in the corner is a Perspex rack containing several small donor-cards, signed by the artist. Visitors are invited to take one: each only becomes classified as 'art' once you have also signed it. The contract is binding until the death of either the owner or Young herself.
I took two: I've signed one and left the other blank. So, according to the contract, one is art and the other isn't. But is such a contract necessary for somebody to consider these art? Simply because I, as owner, and Carey Young, as artist, agree to abide by the contract, does that mean that anybody else has to?
This is intriguing work, I think. It is a genuinely interesting and thoroughly realised exploration of the performative aspects of the law and of art. And it raises plenty of fascinating questions. The only slight trouble with this kind of conceptual art (where aesthetics are very much secondary) is that one doesn't really have to see it in the flesh in order to appreciate its intellectual elements. To that end, it's difficult to encourage anybody to visit the exhibition, but at least Young (unlike some) is working with ideas that are actually both innovative and challenging.
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