Despite its status as a prestigious institution of art in a fairly major American city, the Baltimore Museum of Art (BMA) cannot seem to get its act together. Since last spring's offerings of the Cone Collection (an extensive private collection of early modern art) reopening and the more experimental "BodySpace," there has been little new evidence of creativity occurring within the museum.
I'm not sure whether this is due to the taste of the curators, an insufficient budget, or some other problem in the BMA's infrastructure, but the general quality of the exhibitions has seemed on the decline. The most recent evidence of this is the current featured exhibit, "New on View: Recent Additions to the Collection." The introduction to the show claims that "seeking out and acquiring significant works of art for the collection ? has remained a strong focus for BMA curators and donors," a statement of which I am unconvinced, particularly after perusing the show.
The first room of the show features a group of graphic textiles, created for both practical and more creative purposes, none of which were particularly striking. The one that interested me more than the others was a large woodcut on fabric called "The Dance" (1910) by Raoul Dufy, a French fauvist painter. The print has a repeated design of a couple dancing in a tropical setting while a small native crouches to the side. The next gallery, to the left, focuses on pieces of modern furniture, such as Eero Saarinen's 1956 "Tulip Chair" design; again, the piece was an interesting artifact, but as an independently acquired piece and out of a more specific context, it felt random and lacking in artistic significance. On the wall of the same room is a work by Gerhard Richter, the contemporary German artist whose traveling retrospective has been big news in the art world this year. "128 Photographs of a painting (Halifax 1978)" (1998) is composed of four black-framed panels, each with 16 rectangular photos, close-ups of a painting's textures and brushstrokes. The worst part about the work is not that it ultimately feels a bit insubstantial, but that it seems to be the dregs of Richter's talent.
In fact, most of the contemporary work in "New on View" feels like the dregs of modern art. Take, for example, Richard Gober's "Untitled" (2000), one of the more forgettable works from the "BodySpace" exhibit. The crayon lithograph is comprised of a black line drawing on white paper of a hand outstretched in the insinuation of a sink basin with the drainpipe penetrating the center of the palm. Then there is "Without Title (60 Minute Drawing)" (1999) by William Anastasi. To create the piece, Anastasi took a stick of graphite while blindfolded and drew straight lines out from the center to create a drawing that looks like a large fuzzy mold. The largest contemporary acquisition is probably Rachel Harrison's "Sunday Morning" (2001), which seems to be an outhouse-like structure created of pink-painted wood panels crudely nailed together. On one side of the outhouse is a framed photograph of two older men on a black and white television set covering their mouths as if in surprise, with German subtitles beneath them. A fancy brass door handle is attached to the opposite side.
What, some viewers may wonder, is the meaning of all this?
In relation to "Without Title" and "Sunday Morning," elaborate write-ups are provided beside the works to explain their meanings; and yet the explanations feel like an attempt to convince the viewer of a significance that cannot possibly be discerned from observing the art. This seems evidence of a larger problem occurring among the curatorial choices made with these acquisitions: that there is more of an emphasis on the academia and the conceptualism expressed in the works rather than a sense of aesthetic fulfillment, taking away much, if not all, viewing pleasure. That's not to say there aren't a few redeeming works in the contemporary section; close to a doorway hangs a Cindy Sherman photograph, "Untitled Film Still #84A" (1978), a kitchen scene of stunning black and white contrasts portraying an irritated woman bending to pick up a busted grocery bag.
One of the more enjoyable galleries of the exhibit was a smaller, darker space of smaller paintings, prints, and photos. The collection is a simple but nicely planned group of bland but solid pieces, such as Ellsworth Kelly's self-explanatory ink and collage, "Brushstrokes Cut into Twenty-Seven Squares and Arranged by Chance" (1951). The last two rooms of the exhibit are devoted to older works and tribal artifacts, respectively. One of the names I readily recognized among the older works was Mary Cassatt. Her work featured is "Mrs. Cassatt and Lydia in the Library" (1882), a somber, dark-gray etching and aquatint of a mother and daughter reading by lamplight -- like the Richter, atypical of the rich style for which Cassatt is recognized in the history of art. (In the latter's case, an exuberant, colorful brand of impressionism.)
By the end of the exhibition, I was left with an empty, frustrated feeling. I think that the BMA could really establish itself as an important institution of art in America, or at least on the east coast, but with the continuation of these types of exhibits and, more importantly, acquisitions, it seems to be going nowhere. By filling the museum's permanent spaces with works of an overly academic or esoteric nature, it is squeezing out room for more profound, evolutionary creativity to occur.
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