// literary & arts //
Fall 2016
The Failure of Modernism
Agnes Martin at the Guggenheim
Benjamin Davidoff
The most invigorating part of the major Agnes Martin retrospective currently on view at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York is reaching the exhibition’s end at the top of the Guggenheim rotunda: here, height-induced fear replaces the painful boredom of Martin’s works, set against the numbingly white confines of the twisting gallery space.
The show traces the artistic evolution of Martin (1912-2004) and her wide-ranging oeuvre; Martin’s career functions as an art historical device, a microcosmic example of the developments in New York modernism from abstract expressionism to minimalism. Born in Canada, Martin moved to America at 19, where she earned a degree from Columbia University’s Teachers College. She only embarked upon a serious commitment to painting at the age of 30; when working in New Mexico, she began focusing on still lifes and landscapes. Later in her career, upon returning to New York, she began painting simplified, geometric abstractions that attempted to rival the work of major New York-based abstract expressionists.
The exhibition also serves to highlight Martin’s serious contributions to American modernism, adding this previously underrepresented female artist to the canon of abstract expressionism and minimalism. The exhibition purportedly sheds light on this ostensibly important artist, previously overshadowed by the likes of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Frank Stella--recouping her from the annals of the art historical record--and champions the vitality of Martin’s serene style, developed as a coping mechanism for her mental illness.
While it is important to promote underrepresented female artists for the good of art history, Martin's work is not unique. She essentially copies her style from fellow artists without offering much uniqueness of her own. Perhaps it is lack of skill, rather than gender, which has rendered her anonymous but in the most erudite circles. Her colors are muted versions of Georgia O’Keefe’s, her lines and shapes Stella-esque, and her large, early canvases latter-day Malevich’s. When she did develop her own style it resulted in striped paintings--aesthetically beautiful but nothing more--offering little to push the pulse of art history forward.
As the exhibition-goers wind up the ramp of the Guggenheim, no single painting by Martin succeeds in drawing them in. Her scattered style, rarely coherent, is left hanging in the theoretical void: with a near absence of substantive wall text, the viewer is lost in the overwhelming space, having been deprived the benefit of context or the curator’s probing analysis of the work. Martin’s artworks, ultimately, are too weak to support themselves in the Guggenheim’s space.
Further, while this exhibition is widely being lauded as one of the Guggenheim’s greats, there is, it would seem, a fundamental mischaracterization of her work. While Martin is considered an abstract expressionist, many of her works seem more in concert with minimalism--dependent on grids, stripes, and rigid geometric forms for success. Often monochromatic or comprised of primary colors, Martin’s works connote nothing about herself or her personality nor do they contain any tangible message. Unlike the works of the titans of abstract expressionismsuch as Rothko or Pollock--which clearly communicate the inner psyche of the artist and, in turn, elicit a charged emotional reaction within the viewer, Martin’s works prompt no discernable reaction. The response is, at best, an acknowledgment of the aesthetically pleasing geometrical symmetry. This seems a universal reaction to the work--most visitors glided listlessly through the galleries, lethargically ambling from work to work, never stopping for long or engaging the Guggenheim’s art explainers (education staff hired to interact with visitors about works on display) in conversation.
Thusly, the exhibition and works therein provide no justification for even having staged the major retrospective in the first place. It in fact appears as though she is stuck between styles, never developing one that is truly her own. Her work is best understood in the context of other abstract expressionists and minimalists, and should be displayed amongst such works in order to point out the potential deficiencies of these two movements. Indeed, the isolation of Martin’s work from its historical context seems a disservice to her work, dismantling the art historical potency of her career.
Since Martin’s message is so indecipherable, it is the responsibility of the exhibitor--the Guggenheim and its curators, including a guest curator from the Tate Modern, London--to contribute to the viewer’s understanding of her works. Yet, the show is nearly devoid of gallery text--save for short blurbs detailing the major shifts in Martin’s style, spaces which would have been better used to explain or expand upon individual paintings. Perhaps the point is that the individual painting is not important in comparison with the overarching idea of highlighting an underserved female artist. Yet, the monographic format leaves the viewer searching for information to hold onto, and when the viewer cannot find it, the ennui only multiplies.
Adding to this languor, the Guggenheim’s display is cold, harsh, and alienating, with large paintings set into hermetic, whitewashed recesses. There is something inhuman about the display, emphasizing the gulf between viewer, work, artist, and institution. The display, conditioned by the Guggenheim’s slanted ramp, does not aid matters, and instead deconstructs Martin’s carefully symmetrical grids. While remediating the works in fascinating ways, it deprives the pieces of their original purpose and meaning. At some points, too, the ramp adds to the viewer’s mental fatigue. Before reaching the top, there is a sense of entrapment and angst, and only when the exhibition-goers look down can they recall their primal humanity. The combination of the space and the work constrained within it depresses the viewer, and does not lead to the joyful aesthetic Martin so desired.
This retrospective is symptomatic of the too often occurring problem of the modernist aesthetic. In the move away from figural representation in the 20th century, the attempt to connote feelings, political statements, or conceptual ideas often fails in works that are broken down to their purest forms. While these abstract works were meant to be understood universally (who, after all, cannot understand line, shape, color, form?), the secondary, more sublime message is often lost on the viewer. Maybe Martin’s work truly has a powerful secondary message, but this message is left undecipherable for the museum-goer who lacks an advanced level of modernist art historical literacy. The average viewer is left perplexed in the foreboding environs of the Guggenheim, unarmed with even the most basic guiding wall text. And while some modernist artists (think Rothko, Krasner, Flavin, Stella) could extract a reaction from a viewer without the infrastructure of wall text, Martin, sadly, fails in this respect. The Guggenheim’s attempt to place the spotlight—the honor of a major retrospective at a major museum during a major exhibition season—on an artist whose work does not merit that kind of recognition, reflects a larger failing of modern art and its institutions to captivate the viewer. At the crux of it all, the curators failed to answer the most salient question: why, as cultured, curious, contemplative art lovers should we be paying attention to these striped canvases? There is, after all, a limit on how often the most basic elements of art can be reinvented without the public throwing up their hands for having seen it all before.
The show traces the artistic evolution of Martin (1912-2004) and her wide-ranging oeuvre; Martin’s career functions as an art historical device, a microcosmic example of the developments in New York modernism from abstract expressionism to minimalism. Born in Canada, Martin moved to America at 19, where she earned a degree from Columbia University’s Teachers College. She only embarked upon a serious commitment to painting at the age of 30; when working in New Mexico, she began focusing on still lifes and landscapes. Later in her career, upon returning to New York, she began painting simplified, geometric abstractions that attempted to rival the work of major New York-based abstract expressionists.
The exhibition also serves to highlight Martin’s serious contributions to American modernism, adding this previously underrepresented female artist to the canon of abstract expressionism and minimalism. The exhibition purportedly sheds light on this ostensibly important artist, previously overshadowed by the likes of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Frank Stella--recouping her from the annals of the art historical record--and champions the vitality of Martin’s serene style, developed as a coping mechanism for her mental illness.
While it is important to promote underrepresented female artists for the good of art history, Martin's work is not unique. She essentially copies her style from fellow artists without offering much uniqueness of her own. Perhaps it is lack of skill, rather than gender, which has rendered her anonymous but in the most erudite circles. Her colors are muted versions of Georgia O’Keefe’s, her lines and shapes Stella-esque, and her large, early canvases latter-day Malevich’s. When she did develop her own style it resulted in striped paintings--aesthetically beautiful but nothing more--offering little to push the pulse of art history forward.
As the exhibition-goers wind up the ramp of the Guggenheim, no single painting by Martin succeeds in drawing them in. Her scattered style, rarely coherent, is left hanging in the theoretical void: with a near absence of substantive wall text, the viewer is lost in the overwhelming space, having been deprived the benefit of context or the curator’s probing analysis of the work. Martin’s artworks, ultimately, are too weak to support themselves in the Guggenheim’s space.
Further, while this exhibition is widely being lauded as one of the Guggenheim’s greats, there is, it would seem, a fundamental mischaracterization of her work. While Martin is considered an abstract expressionist, many of her works seem more in concert with minimalism--dependent on grids, stripes, and rigid geometric forms for success. Often monochromatic or comprised of primary colors, Martin’s works connote nothing about herself or her personality nor do they contain any tangible message. Unlike the works of the titans of abstract expressionismsuch as Rothko or Pollock--which clearly communicate the inner psyche of the artist and, in turn, elicit a charged emotional reaction within the viewer, Martin’s works prompt no discernable reaction. The response is, at best, an acknowledgment of the aesthetically pleasing geometrical symmetry. This seems a universal reaction to the work--most visitors glided listlessly through the galleries, lethargically ambling from work to work, never stopping for long or engaging the Guggenheim’s art explainers (education staff hired to interact with visitors about works on display) in conversation.
Thusly, the exhibition and works therein provide no justification for even having staged the major retrospective in the first place. It in fact appears as though she is stuck between styles, never developing one that is truly her own. Her work is best understood in the context of other abstract expressionists and minimalists, and should be displayed amongst such works in order to point out the potential deficiencies of these two movements. Indeed, the isolation of Martin’s work from its historical context seems a disservice to her work, dismantling the art historical potency of her career.
Since Martin’s message is so indecipherable, it is the responsibility of the exhibitor--the Guggenheim and its curators, including a guest curator from the Tate Modern, London--to contribute to the viewer’s understanding of her works. Yet, the show is nearly devoid of gallery text--save for short blurbs detailing the major shifts in Martin’s style, spaces which would have been better used to explain or expand upon individual paintings. Perhaps the point is that the individual painting is not important in comparison with the overarching idea of highlighting an underserved female artist. Yet, the monographic format leaves the viewer searching for information to hold onto, and when the viewer cannot find it, the ennui only multiplies.
Adding to this languor, the Guggenheim’s display is cold, harsh, and alienating, with large paintings set into hermetic, whitewashed recesses. There is something inhuman about the display, emphasizing the gulf between viewer, work, artist, and institution. The display, conditioned by the Guggenheim’s slanted ramp, does not aid matters, and instead deconstructs Martin’s carefully symmetrical grids. While remediating the works in fascinating ways, it deprives the pieces of their original purpose and meaning. At some points, too, the ramp adds to the viewer’s mental fatigue. Before reaching the top, there is a sense of entrapment and angst, and only when the exhibition-goers look down can they recall their primal humanity. The combination of the space and the work constrained within it depresses the viewer, and does not lead to the joyful aesthetic Martin so desired.
This retrospective is symptomatic of the too often occurring problem of the modernist aesthetic. In the move away from figural representation in the 20th century, the attempt to connote feelings, political statements, or conceptual ideas often fails in works that are broken down to their purest forms. While these abstract works were meant to be understood universally (who, after all, cannot understand line, shape, color, form?), the secondary, more sublime message is often lost on the viewer. Maybe Martin’s work truly has a powerful secondary message, but this message is left undecipherable for the museum-goer who lacks an advanced level of modernist art historical literacy. The average viewer is left perplexed in the foreboding environs of the Guggenheim, unarmed with even the most basic guiding wall text. And while some modernist artists (think Rothko, Krasner, Flavin, Stella) could extract a reaction from a viewer without the infrastructure of wall text, Martin, sadly, fails in this respect. The Guggenheim’s attempt to place the spotlight—the honor of a major retrospective at a major museum during a major exhibition season—on an artist whose work does not merit that kind of recognition, reflects a larger failing of modern art and its institutions to captivate the viewer. At the crux of it all, the curators failed to answer the most salient question: why, as cultured, curious, contemplative art lovers should we be paying attention to these striped canvases? There is, after all, a limit on how often the most basic elements of art can be reinvented without the public throwing up their hands for having seen it all before.
\\BENJAMIN DAVIDOFF is a senior in Columbia College majoring in Art History and Political Affairs Editor of The Current. He can be reached at bpd2114@columbia.edu. Photo courtesy of the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.