3.12.18 — Art Is Scary

Video art is scary. I do not just mean that it makes art all too easy, although it sure seems that way these days. I do not just mean either that it draws on the same tools as the surveillance state—or that, like any art, it can border on madness.

No, I mean that moment when one steps behind the curtain unaccustomed to the dark, afraid of walking into something dangerous or tumbling to the floor. With Untitled (Havana, 2000), through March 11 (and so sorry I’m a day late), Tania Bruguera latches onto every one of those fears and never lets go. You may not feel safe even after you leave—and I have added this to past reports on contemporary Cuban and Caribbean art as a longer review and my latest upload.

At the very least, you will not feel safe until you come out again into the light. Bruguera recreates her installation for the 2000 Havana Biennial, set within an old fortress used for torture, imprisonment, and mass executions before and after the Cuban Revolution. By then, it held just another art fair, which come to think of it is scary, too. It followed the Clinton administration’s opening to Cuba, with Americans flocking to see what they could before a Republican backlash. The Castro regime was welcoming, up to a point. It closed the work within hours, because it did want to remind people of its terrors.

Here, too, one enters past imposing walls into silence and near total darkness, like an Infinity Room for Yayoi Kusama in reverse. MoMA admits only four visitors at a time, and they must power off and pocket their cell phones—or slip them into black cases that the museum provides. There is no looking for guidance or relief. Every step requires risk taking, for Bruguera lays down a thick carpet of pulp from crushed sugarcane, and its scent does not exactly sweeten the air. Maybe you will make out a small source of light high and in the distance, and maybe you will manage to approach it. You will still be in danger of falling as you crane your neck to view the monitor overhead.

It displays a short video of Castro and more Castro, basking in adoration. Fidel swims, smiles, speechifies, embraces, and exposes his chest again and again. He could be the soldier pointing to what he suffered on behalf of the cause—or the resurrected god pointing to his wounds. In fact, he is showing off his going among the people as one of them, without a bullet-proof vest. Images of the fearless leader were always suspect, but what drew censure is what accompanies them. Depending on your adjustment to the light as you begin a slow walk back to the exit, you may see a performance element that bares its chest, too.

I have already revealed too much, but Bruguera herself cannot stop redescribing the work. Nothing for her is without meaning. She made earlier art from her body in performance, and now she puts yours and that of others on the line, much like the regime. Does a limit on visitors produce lines? Cubans are used to waiting for hours through shortages. The show has an unusually short run for a museum, but she might respond that its first run was even shorter.

The lack of title, too, is meaningful, although Postmodernism might argue that Untitled is always a title. Bruguera alludes to the erasure of the work’s original title, Engineers of the Soul, while adding in parenthesis the specificity of time and place—and while adopting the practice of another Cuban artist, Félix Gonzáles-Torres. This Caribbean art combines sensory overload and sensory deprivation. It depends on immediate experience, shared histories, the artist’s associations that one might never guess, and crucial elements that one may never see. It is vague or broad enough to target Communism and colonialism. It collapses under its own weight, but you can still fear that it might fall on you.

Read more, now in a feature-length article on this site.