Top: Rivane Neuenschwander, still from
Inventory of Small Deaths (Blow), 2000
Super 8 film transferred to DVD
Below: Rivane Neuenschwander, Suspension Point, 2008
Installation view, South London Gallery, Photo: Andy Keate
London - I want to retrace an initial impression of a show I saw a few weeks ago: Brazilian artist Rivane Neuenschwander’s exhibition Suspension Point at South London Gallery. I have a poor memory, even if it’s just reaching by a day or so, so I make no promises of accuracy. But I think a vague outline is in keeping with the fluid tensions set up in the exhibition, the sense that material objects and physical places exist in perpetual transition with streams of thoughts and sensations.
For the exhibition the artist transformed the Victorian gallery by constructing a second floor. On entering the space visitors are confronted with a choice: to climb a newly-constructed wooden staircase—to go up into the bright expanse of a high-ceiling second level and walk onto its unfinished plywood floor—or to head toward the construction itself, into the web of beams and frames that support the structure.
The white walls of the upper level are lined with drill holes the size of golf balls, decorative peepholes that stop short of pushing through to the outside. The shavings from the drilling are spread into a haphazard pile of sawdust, a miniature mountain of growth that rises from the ground. (On second thought, perhaps the sawdust is a byproduct of the larger construction, remnants of the trees that makes up the flooring?) In another spot a dented metal bowl has been inserted into an opening in the floor. Droplets of water fall on its surface and, amplified by a microphone, echo like hits to a kettledrum. (Seen from below, I realize that there’s no dripping water after all, that I’ve been duped by a recording.) Walking back down the staircase and underneath the floor, I felt like I was descending underground. But in contrast to the subterranean feel, Neuenschwander inserted a Super 8 film of a giant bubble as it drifts its way through landscapes and sky.
If it sounds overly complicated, it’s my fault. In the end, the artist has occupied the space with a poignant simplicity. Her sculptural hand draws lines of continuity between natural and constructed materials, through the social parameters and possibilities of the space, and back around to the romantic and practical frameworks that imbue them with meaning and purpose. She abbreviates a body of water to a bowl, then inserts a phantom leak like some meditative soundtrack or a quiet clock to the head. She transforms a ground level gallery into an introverted, basement-like environment, only to propose an idyllic view through a cinematic window, an outside world seen through the soft distortion of a floating bubble.
Walking through the exhibition I was left with a sense of having moved through territory, of having passed through the objects and associations as they fold one into the other, expanding and collapsing like breaths through breathing things.
I realize I would benefit from a return visit to take in more of the details that I’m sure are there…to collect background information on the artist, her intent, exhibition history, working context and so on. But the truth is, I’m satisfied with the richness of my first viewing and content to chew on my hazy associative recollection.
Liz Bruchet
For the exhibition the artist transformed the Victorian gallery by constructing a second floor. On entering the space visitors are confronted with a choice: to climb a newly-constructed wooden staircase—to go up into the bright expanse of a high-ceiling second level and walk onto its unfinished plywood floor—or to head toward the construction itself, into the web of beams and frames that support the structure.
The white walls of the upper level are lined with drill holes the size of golf balls, decorative peepholes that stop short of pushing through to the outside. The shavings from the drilling are spread into a haphazard pile of sawdust, a miniature mountain of growth that rises from the ground. (On second thought, perhaps the sawdust is a byproduct of the larger construction, remnants of the trees that makes up the flooring?) In another spot a dented metal bowl has been inserted into an opening in the floor. Droplets of water fall on its surface and, amplified by a microphone, echo like hits to a kettledrum. (Seen from below, I realize that there’s no dripping water after all, that I’ve been duped by a recording.) Walking back down the staircase and underneath the floor, I felt like I was descending underground. But in contrast to the subterranean feel, Neuenschwander inserted a Super 8 film of a giant bubble as it drifts its way through landscapes and sky.
If it sounds overly complicated, it’s my fault. In the end, the artist has occupied the space with a poignant simplicity. Her sculptural hand draws lines of continuity between natural and constructed materials, through the social parameters and possibilities of the space, and back around to the romantic and practical frameworks that imbue them with meaning and purpose. She abbreviates a body of water to a bowl, then inserts a phantom leak like some meditative soundtrack or a quiet clock to the head. She transforms a ground level gallery into an introverted, basement-like environment, only to propose an idyllic view through a cinematic window, an outside world seen through the soft distortion of a floating bubble.
Walking through the exhibition I was left with a sense of having moved through territory, of having passed through the objects and associations as they fold one into the other, expanding and collapsing like breaths through breathing things.
I realize I would benefit from a return visit to take in more of the details that I’m sure are there…to collect background information on the artist, her intent, exhibition history, working context and so on. But the truth is, I’m satisfied with the richness of my first viewing and content to chew on my hazy associative recollection.
Liz Bruchet
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