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Half-astral >> Lost in the Cosmos at the Museum of Fine Arts by RUPERT BOTTENBERG
The first room's largely on the Biblical tip. Various sweeping vistas of roiling clouds and cradle-of-civilization burgs and tormented seraphim squirming before the wrath of God. One dude rocks it hard: John Martin, with his "Fallen Angels Entering Pandemonium." Had a hard-on for the Apocalypse, this Martin cat. In the next room we found some curious shit. Nobody knows who pulled off this omnidirectional "View of London and Surrounding Country From Top of St. Paul's Cathedral," back in 1845. Freak must've had eyes not just in the back of his head, but all over, like a potato. T.A. says it's "representational of man's inherent urge to spread his wings and leave this Earth." Photos a-plenty here, too: barren glaciers, cliff faces and sexy rock formations, all unyielding and majestic and shit. Now T.A.'s making connections, mumbling cryptically about "otherworldly landscapes." Thomas Moran's "Hot Springs of the Yellowstone" backs him up; "Looks like the sulfur pits of Venus," he says, with a disconcerting air of authority in his voice. I say it looks like a rejected Yes album cover. Most of what's here, though, could get some gold leaf trim and pass for Christian greeting cards, serene waterfalls with lightweight prayers inside: "To my nephew, on the day of his confirmation." Next room's all iceberg sketches. Mug shots for Titanic survivors. Room after that, things are picking up. It's two-for-one; this side's Aurora Borealis, best light show short of Floyd, and that side's moon stuff. Old photos and daguerreotypes, and a giant moon map made out of bong screening.
Asteroid juice and Sputnik tchotchkes
Then there's doodles by Georges Méliès, the cat who did that old silent number Trip to the Moon, with the moon-man getting the rocket right in the peeper. What's with all the mushrooms, Georges? We're on to you. The Litton Industries prototype spacesuit looks "non-functional," says T.A. "Crappy gloves." How does he know this stuff? Dug the Soviet Sputnik tchotchkes, though, and the Rauschenberg print, "Sky Garden," doing things to my eyes. Not like Guiseppe Pelllizza da Volpedo's "Rising Sun," though. Joe's a mean bastard--nails you with the sunbeams when you look right at it. Get an escalating whine in the ear, everything goes all grey and featherweight. Eyes open again to T.A. overhead, grinning like a marmoset. Counted 12 seconds I was down. Real funny. He's smart--never took his shades off. Know where this Frantisek Kupka's coming from. "Cosmic Spring 2," all moldy and smoky and crystalline patterns. Gotta be careful--that shit comes back and chases you around when you least need it to. Next room's just rinky-dink wire sculptures, loose takes on the constellation scene. Room after that's got two walls of lines and dots and circles and trapezoids and rhombi and sweet Jesus knows what. Too much of it. Headache fuel.
Fast train to Futureville
He's on a tear now. "Putting all this stuff under the heading 'Cosmos' takes away the kinetic energy of the paintings. Ever since that room with the damn icebergs and rock formations, I'm getting this eternity vibe, like time is frozen still." He doesn't like it--he's used to paintings writhing, groaning and seeping out all over him. They're supposed to do that. They're just friendly that way. In the next room we find the payoff--the great big universal money shot. Hablik again, piece called "Firmament." Suns and stars and planets and whatever cosmic debris bursting out in a glorious spiral, spilling all over the universe, like a monumental cartoon parade. Heavy.
Da, krazy komrade There's a little side room here, an installation piece by some Soviet nutcase, Ilya Kabakov. "The Man Who Flew Into Space From His Apartment." Dumpy cold-water flat with pinko-prop posters and infantile space doodles on the wall, a jerry-rigged slingshot contraption and a hole in the roof. "Represents homo sovieticus trapped between material poverty and idealistic dreams," says the placard. Some fool nonsense about planets in conjunction and cosmic energy streams, suggesting that Kabakov wasn't that crazy. He just wanted to get the hell outta red Russia. Who wouldn't? Down to the basement, past the globe room, past the 20'-by-20' star map and the "colour" photos of the night sky. Note to Thomas Ruff: b&w woulda worked fine. Got Carl Sagan in my head, going, "Billions and billions, billions and billions," until the classical music from 2001 takes its place. That's not me, that's the house system. They're closing out with a slide show of nebulas and galaxies and star clusters and all that. And I'm closing out with this: one big step for mankind, out the front door and back on sweet, solid Mother Earth.
Cosmos: Romanticism to the Avant-Garde runs to October 17 at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts |
Remember Neil Armstrong's bit, there, "One small step for man...?" Well, this easy journey to other planets started with big steps. Big, wide, tiring steps, care of the crackhead architect who cooked up the Museum of Fine Arts' new building. "Pretty annoying," notes my technical advisor. "Why aren't they moving?" His dashiki reeks of herbal wisdom, his third eye's all crusty.
With the next room, shit finally starts to rock. I mean rock--like a moon rock. Like a meteor. They got one on a pedestal, found it in Madoc, Ontario. Flash on some dumb farmer running around with glowing asteroid juice on his paws, corroding away while he hollers at the guys in decontamination suits and Geiger counters.
Other two walls' got a bunch of dimestore DaVincis making up futurevilles and flying machines. Like these "air colonies," noticeably short on Nader-esque safety features. Great place to raise a kid. Check the subtext on Wenzel Hablik's untitled plate, from the Schaffende Kräfte series. "It is terrible beyond the stars--your soul does not find its God until it has doubly annihilated its body." What?! Creepy. T.A. says it's that dust-to-dust thing, taken to another level.