Darren Bader – such are promises, Sadie Coles, Kingly St
Until 20th February
Sadie Coles describe their man as a ‘mercurial mischief-maker’, a near-cliché which is too often used to disguise artists who can offer up a contradictory one liner, but not much else. The art equivalent of the snarky, punning Twitter commentator who briefly rides the wave of social media approval during a particularly contentious episode of Question Time.
Darren Bader is not that; his shows in London and New York have tampered with expectations of curation and the meaning of art. But this current run feels quite flat. Any mischief Bader makes lacks punch and instead comes off as waspish and irritating. There is a hodge-podge og Golden Age Hollywood era photographs, books lying on the floor, subwoofers pumping out noise, and even an imitation of an Ed Ruscha print. The trouble with mixing together so much media, most of it reclaimed by Bader, means that any individual piece which would otherwise stand out is burdened by doubt. If the show has a broader point about the nature of exhibiting, then its individual parts are cannon fodder for satire. So when he assembles a gushing tap from pennies or a rotating board with the slogan (N)E(U)ROTIC, the initial charm is dampened by the distrust wedged between artist and viewer. such are promises has attracted attention for its interactive centrepieces: a chessboard and a boules arena. I wasn’t there for the start of either game, but I was pretty close and the turnout appeared to be very low, suggesting that I’m not the only one concerned that the show is to a large degree a joke at the viewer’s expense. For an interactive show it feels quite exclusive. But then again I would say that if I didn’t really understand.
It’s not always the case, but having a show which inherently critiques the collecting impulse is able to loosen its discipline and lack coherence. This is not to say that all art has to be subject to a message, but the litmus test of whether your view of, and interaction with, the world changes after looking at the art is not passed here, unless you count the mental seasickness from having been tossed around incoherent pieces. He has shown a firecracker wit in the past, manipulating donation bins to read either ‘All donations will go to something’ and ‘All donations will go to nothing’, and he has shown prowess with word play in ‘Heaven And Earth’ where he provided JPEGs with hilariously associated pairs of items; ‘anus and/with greyness’ being a particular favourite of mine as it depicts a colour card put inside someone’s bum. Such wit was the redemption in the retrospective for Christopher Williams, one of Bader’s influences, in the Whitechapel Gallery last year, but this show feels lukewarm on the whole.
Bridget Smith – The Eye Needs A Horizon, Frith Street Gallery, Golden Square
Until 3rd March
Bridget Smith, Blueprint For A Sea (Rising), 2015, cyanotype print on aluminium, 108.5 x 230 x 4 cm. Courtesy of the artist and Frith Street Galleries. Photo: Stephen White.
A delight. We’d all like to spend more time perusing around art galleries, but it’s difficult to do when you’re thinking about that email you need to send and it’s 30 degrees inside and you’re wearing too many layers and your feet hurt. With that in mind, I can’t think of a show which rewards with so much from so little as Bridget Smith’s current installation at the Frith Street Gallery. Comprised of just four cyanotypes (a photographic print which provides copies easily and cheaply – its use in copying drawings is where we get the term ‘blueprint’) and a video, there is much to meditate on in its deconstruction of cinema. Turning the focus away from the screen onto the apparatus needed to facilitate its viewing, Smith’s prints are photographs of seats and curtains arranged in a symmetrical monotone which evokes Minimalist forms or, as the name of the show suggests, the rhythms of the sea.
The video shows a projector’s beam, concentrating on the balletic movement of dust which it illuminates. The effect is cosmic, as if the beam has captured a galaxy. On one level the work tells you that is what cinema achieves; it creates new universes using its own visual language. But Smith’s work enters greatness as this grace and gravitas afforded to cinematic materials – assisted by the subtle installation of sun-like hanging lights in the gallery – redraws exterior, natural landscape with designed materials of an interior.
Smith’s book Society consists of photographs taken of community centres, spaces which clubs call their home, but the pictures are devoid of people. This came as a break from her 2000 exhibition Mirage which depicted Las Vegas’ constant reconstruction of fantastical, facile environments in a desperate attempt to keep entertaining, to keep the show running. The Eye Needs A Horizon in turn resurrects a model from even earlier in her career, the Odeon series which shot cinema seats and curtains together in striking, colourful compositions. Throughout all her projects Smith depicts the psychology of space brilliantly, and this might be her most elegant yet. A room is never quite just a room with Smith, but a snapshot of a liminal space, caught between what it is physically made of and the intangibility of what its occupants invest into it.
Wolf Suschitzky – Wolf Suschitzky’s London, Photographers’ Gallery
Until 6th March
Saul Leiter’s pioneering use of colour is currently stealing the headlines at the Photographers’ Gallery, a canny reappraisal of street photography beyond the black and white documentary stereotype. Yet hidden in the gallery’s bottom floor is another sideways take on the form, specific to London; the photoraphs of Wolf Suschitzky.
Taken before, during, and after the Second World War, Suschitzky manages to preserve the immigrant’s eye for detail in England whilst also demonstrating the cosmopolitanism it shared with its European neighbours; a photograph of a dancer at Hampstead Heath fair could have stepped off the Berlin cabaret. In showing off Suschitzky’s work the Photographer’s Gallery are, via his allusions to intriguing conversations and gratuitous use of neon signage, chipping away at the cosy, Keep Calm And Bake Off memory of the 1940s which has been knitted into our brains in recent years. Far from being staid, Suschitzky’s London is full of Cartier-Bresson style dynamism, with fountains spurting, children playing, and pigeons cavorting.
The fogs of London are now diffusing from living memory, turning them into the subject of treatment in historical non-fiction work like Christine Corton’s London Fog: A Biography. My favourite piece in the exhibition depicts bowler-hatted Londoners staring at some visage on the Thames, which has been cropped out.
Westminster Bridge becomes an abstracted platform, disconnected from any apparent landmass. The vantage point of the Londoners over the mist recalls the quintessential Romantic painting Wanderer Above The Sea Of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich, but their somewhat startled scrutiny adds a lightness of touch to the picture, as if they were greeting an old friend in a new coat. The vocabulary of rolling, dirty clouds punctuated by illuminated adverts and signs could easily be an awkward imitation of Manhattan, but Suschitzky keeps a humour to it all. His photographs of war or poverty ravaged parts of the city are likewise lifted from clinical documentary with warmth.
Suschitzky later worked as a cinematographer on films such as Get Carter, and his ability to construct a narrative with composed images and scenes is palpable. The spread of his photographs downstairs at the Photographers’ Gallery is like a storyboard for parallel visions of London that didn’t germinate. A testament to the power of cinema which Bridget Smith also harbours.