Museo de Bellas Artes de Bilbao

Martin de Vos, The Rape of Europa, 1570-75

On my final day in Bilbao, deterred by all the rules and regulations to be followed at the Guggenheim, I visited the Museum of Fine Arts. I should have known that this museum would be all but empty and the guards relaxed, rather than rushing to berate the visitors for coming too close to or taking photographs of the art works. All round, my visit to the Museo de Bellas Artes was a much more comfortable experience than the Guggenheim and I would really recommend it to anyone interested in escaping the tourists.

Paul Gauguin, Washerwoman in Arles, 1888

The pleasure of visiting this museum begins with the organization of its permanent collection into twenty-six rooms, one for each letter of the alphabet. It sounds hokey, but this innovative way of displaying works, many of which will be little known to visitors unfamiliar with Spanish and Basque art, was delightful and informative. The theme of each room is determined by the letter of the alphabet: Art, Bilbao, Citoyen (Citizen), Desira (Desire), Espejo (Mirror) and so on. The result being that the museum’s prize artwork—Gauguin’s Washerwoman in Arles (1888) hangs in the same room as four Joseph Beuys lithographs, and archaeological finds from the Basque region. Thus, there is no privilege given to, for example, the reputation of the artist, the century in which the work was created, or the artistic material/medium of execution. The hanging encourages visitors to look at everything, to discover previously unknown art works and also to contemplate the connections between artists that, instinctively, we would have thought had nothing in common. I found this dialogue over centuries to be enlightening as well as a great way to examine aspects of the works that we might otherwise ignore.

Antoni Tàpies, Large Oval or Painting, 1955

Of course, there are problems with this kind of exhibition. First and most obviously, there is so much left out of the hanging because it draws attention to thematic elements perceived by the curators while ignoring the historical, cultural and aesthetic particularity of certain pieces. To give one example, in the room called Terre (Earth), Antoni Tàpies, Large Oval or Painting (1955) focuses solely on the role of the earth as material, and overlooks the coming together of paint and the natural environment for expressive purposes in the artwork. In another example, the works in the room entitled War share their space with Goya’s exquisite portraits of the Adán de Yarza Family, and therefore, it was impossible to look at anything else in the room.

Francis Bacon, Lying Figure in a Mirror, 1971

In addition, some of the rooms are more convincing than others. The room themed Desire is wonderful, with images ranging from depictions of prostitution, through Martin de Vos’s magnificent The Rape of Europa, 1570-75, Jose de Ribera’s San Sebastian Cured by the Holy Women, and ending up with an example of Francis Bacon’s delight for pieces of flesh in mirrors. Together, the works in this room raise questions of submission and power, ways of seeing the body, and how both themes change across centuries. Other rooms, however, are less convincing. The rooms devoted to Friendship and Otherness being cases in point. Paintings such as Goya’s portrait of Martin Zapater or sculptures like Jorge Otieza’s of his wife didn’t convince me that they were about friendship. I couldn’t help thinking that any number of art works could have been put in this room and the notion of friendship twisted around the depictions to fit the theme. In a more academic critique, the room labelled “Quiet” shows a number of still life paintings, thus assuming that still and quiet are the same thing. To think of the converse, which is also implied by the organization in this room, I couldn’t help imagining how misleading it would be to think of all those Cezanne paintings as quiet. This history of turmoil, change and confrontation that artists such as Cezanne depict through apples and oranges falling off tables would be completely erased if the still life was indeed quiet.

Richard Serra, The Matter of Time @ Guggenheim Bilbao

Richard Serra, The Matter of Time, 1994-2005

In one of the most extraordinary museum displays of sculpture, the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao permanently houses Richard Serra’s The Matter of Time. The eight monumental torqued spirals span the range of Serra’s steel sculptures as they developed between 1994 and 2005. Walking the sculptural field on the museum’s ground floor, we move through self-standing Corten steel torqued ellipses, highly complex snaking ribbons, ending up inside the torqued toruses. The terracotta patina of the earlier pieces makes their skin warm and inviting from a distance, but often visually unremarkable up close. By the end of our journey through the sculptures we are surrounded by the impressed steel toruses that have not weathered. But it is not their visual appearance that makes these sculptures magnificent. It is true that they deliberately challenge our notions of art and sculpture, of the possibilities of steel as a medium, as well as our preconceptions of how both function in space. But they are not only sculptures to look at; their real challenge comes to our corporeal identities, our sense of stability, and thus, our very notion of ourselves as human beings.

Richard Serra, Torqued Spiral Closed Open Closed Open Closed, 2003-2004

Ironically, however, the museum has an aggressive, visitor un-friendly surveillance policy that, if it were consistently obeyed, would prohibit visitors from experiencing the full effects of the sculptures. If the museum had its way, the sculptures are not to be touched, photographed or interacted with in any way. Potentially, well-behaved visitors would then be left wondering what these steel slabs are meant to be about. Contrary to the Guggenheim’s instructions, Serra’s are works to be touched, caressed, leant on and tantalized with our fingers and toes. The weathering Corten steel is at its most awe-inspiring only when we interact with it, physically, intellectually, and emotionally, all at once.

Richard Serra, Snake, 1994-1997

From the outset, I have to say that everyone’s experience of Richard Serra’s sculptures is unique. Because meaning comes from an ongoing relationship with them, over time,  interpretation depends on how we interact, in what time, at what pace, and how we are feeling on any given day. That said, there is something pure and intense about everyone’s experience of The Matter of Time because it  is in the museum as opposed to out in public space. Thus, there are less variables. If we break the museum’s rules, we will go through a series of unsettling and perhaps disorienting experiences. Walking around the base of the torqued ellipses, as they move from falling in on us to away from us, as we move from being on their inside to being on their outside, we start to feel dizzy and nauseous. Lost inside the spiral, I felt a complete loss of balance and had to steady myself by reaching out to touch the side of the sculpture. And then, ready to start walking again, I felt protected by its steel walls. That is, until they changed direction, as in bent away rather than in on me. And then, shortly after regaining my balance, I felt vulnerable and challenged by their unpredictability. I became insecure thanks to their inability to sit still, to be reliable as a wall to lean on, the limit of a path to guide, or a dead end to stop my motion. And so, already, inside the first piece, I found myself in a tussle with it, seduced into a game of cat and mouse; moving, following, I got comfortable and the steel spirals de-stabilized me, threw me into disorientation.

I had never experienced the ribbons before—in fact, I am not sure that Serra has ever made other ribbons—and was skeptical that they would produce any effect. Nevertheless, I dutifully followed the passageway given me by the first ribbon, slowly bending with its curves. It wasn’t until I came out the other end that I realized its power. I thought I was going to vomit. I was nauseous and dizzy and had no desire whatsoever to go back through the second corridor of steel. I stumbled on to the next sculpture, another torqued ellipsis, and I became in turns afraid and convinced that the steel wall was going to fall in on me. I know very well that Serra’s monumental – or anti-monumental – steel structures are self-standing, single pieces of metal. And yet, the degree of the lean was so acute that I could became obsessed with the possibility of being flattened like the road runner. I lost all sense of security inside.

 

Richard Serra, Blind Spot Reversed, 2003-2005

These works refer to nothing other than themselves, and even then, they deflect all attention onto our bodies. This is their challenge to our concept of art: they ultimately offer an experience of ourselves, in motion, and time, confronting us with our reliance on gravity, on the order of things as we know them. Similarly, they challenge our assumptions about being in the world, about what we know of the materials of construction in our world. Steel of that width is not meant to be torqued, Corten steel is not meant to be malleable, let alone lean inwards and then outwards without falling to the ground. Serra talks of the challenge to assumptions about steel, and about the propensity for the steel to be milled as he desires it. In interview he has related the early skepticism of engineers and the construction team for the sculptures to be made to his specifications. What they do with steel goes against all possibility—and therefore extends what is possible in steel.

 

Richard Serra, Between the Torus and the Sphere, 2003-2005

I came away from The Matter of Time thinking of the buildings inside which we hide, inside which we order our lives, the offices, department stores, contemporary high rise apartment blocks, all of which are made of the same steel as Serra’s sculptures. We don’t ever think they will fall in on us, but why not? Surely the experience of the torqued sculptures is telling us something?

And so, I wonder at the Guggenheim Bilbao with its rigid viewing parameters. The museum as institution is intent on curtailing the experience in a way that defeats the purpose of these magnificent sculptures. They are everything that art is not – the experience is not only about looking, revering an art object. It’s about privileging the viewer, and letting the viewer’s experience unfold. Allowing us to explore the limits of who we are, and how we define ourselves in relationship to an unstable world. It’s difficult not to have a giggle at the Guggenheim with its assiduous need to control our experience of a series of sculptures that are, ultimately, all about the inherent inability of human beings to control their environment.






All images copyright Guggenheim Bilbao