“Drip, crack, drip, crack” the sounds echo in strange catatonic sequence, sort of like a nuclear chain reaction on very, very slow replay. Otherwise, the purpose is the same – to melt our brains into something rather gooey – a necessary attribute to commence a mind-expanding touring of the great Guggenheim.
The dripping torture arrives courtesy of an intricate variety of microphones crowding a small disco stage right at the foyer. Their membranes crane, stretch and strain to relay the utterances of the star du-hour – an amorphously large and very wet glob of ice. That’s it, ice - just the kind that slides of glaciers in the Rockies. Stumped by the intricate display of creativity, we ponder the meaning while the unyielding mass of H2O emits few groans here and there. Otherwise, the world is water tight with silence. With our mental receptacles sufficiently provoked we move on leaving the poor custodians to mop up the drips.
The opposite end of the same stark white foyer betrays a larger stage in no want of Michael Jackson. It too has an occupant – a dumpful of torn-up old books. In Russia we had a specially designed term for literature in obsolescence – “mukulatura”. In America, an all expansive term “recycle” grabs it all including old rancid beer cans. Guggenheim charmers, undoubtedly well-versed in keeping the paying public non-affronted, dispensed with cans but pile up a small army of books, shivering and ripped to the smallest of morsels.
“Look, this whole thing moves” says Zhenya with her deep brown Ukrainian eyes travelling all the way to the seventh heaven, or seventh floor if you will, where a pair of white-gloved hands operates a set of intricate pullies, hoisting up and lowering down very mundane and utterly adulterated “mukulatura” with mathematical precision.
“I wonder what it looks like from there” intones Dorin, mesmerised by the hands of the invisible master. She bends her neck backwards for the best possible view of the attraction. I fear a whiplash.
Inside, Guggenheim is a deep well with the roof connected to the bottom by nothing except pure, unadulterated air. White-washed in the most sterile Greek isle tradition, the main staircase swirls up like a Dairy Queen drive-through creation. It is buttoned up with impenetrable banisters, making it forever attractive to keep going – if only merely to make sure not to miss anything. So round and round we go – Dante immediately comes to mind.
The first landing displays much Oriental writing on tiny strips. They nestle nest to a long paper strip unfolded with harmonica wrinkles as if it has spent the last hundred years in some very tiny crinkled suitcase. A group of thoughtful observers guard the approaches to the mysterious strip for a long haul – with chins firmly positioned on an L-bar of their hands. I know it is a pain in the ass to find your hands something to do when inspecting art.
We carefully nudge for closer inspection. Misha giggles attracting the ire of some regulars with their chins on the L-bar. I can barely maintain my composure either. The strip, the twenty years of it, betray nothing but a straight crayon line. Black and ordinary, I can’t wait for the next exhibit. It, too, comes from a crafty person who must have read at least few verses of Confucius. The ancient sage was big on patience and this particular student must have really tried as his work of art is nothing but insides of a large cube to swallow an average size Manhattan living room. It empty, echoing in hollowness of purpose. It has to be since the every living inch of the surface in covered in tiny strips of golden paper. It blinds.
Misha staggers away mesmerized by the patience and utility of the piece, we faithfully follow. Luckily, at this point the staircase deviates into a very useful nook. It has Kandinsky with all the Parisian parasols one can possibly fancy. We breathe with relief. I do so, with my seventy two dollars on the line, with a particularly happy gulp.
Another nook and it becomes positively jolly. Monet, Cezanne and Picasso enter the scene with much meaning and, above all, mastery. With Vince the life becomes positively bright. Somewhere amide his careless swooshes of yellow and lilac, “You know. He cut his own ear” Zhenya informs me.
“You don’t say” I nervously look for somebody with Blackberry to confirm the assertion via portable Google. Alas, Misha and Dorin have already found their wireless interlocutors. “Why?” I have to take Zhenya at her word.
“He had this interesting relationship with Goggen. They lived together and then one day hell broke loose and they parted. Goggen ended in Polynesia, many hula girls and one whole wife with breasts like melons. Vincent couldn’t manage, cut his ear off and send it slow post to his old friend, sort of like “now you have it”.
A super tale! Under the tale’s heavy spell we leave the nook for the main swirling staircase once again. Given the heightened exposure we expect the ever brighter pallets of artistic genius. Alas, none emerges. In fact, it gets progressively worse. It begins with a very thick book, a copy of the Koran, perhaps shot through by a bullet of a certain bloodthirsty tyrant from Pakistan. Interesting and poignant to be sure…Although artificially fashioned on some shooting range it still reminds the world of the profound conundrum that is Pakistan. It must be something with the rarefied mountain air that swoops down from time to time, disabling folks of the most banal postulates of reason.
The shot Koran is the high point. Afterwards we stumble upon a haphazard pile of construction supplies. Pilfered from a nearby site made dormant by dismal economics, various tools marred in chunks of concrete dust provide very little use for the already finished Guggenheim décor. Aha, this is an art exhibit! Predictably, I stumble upon few folks pondering with their L-bars straining the full weight of their chin structures.
After putting an avoiding manoeuvre we swerve in the next took – Meditation Room. It is half-way up to the top and it is dark save for dim purple reflections. A security guard, poised stoically, is contorted in a mute pointing sign. “It must be tiring” a thought leisurely trundles through my brain mush. The human pointer is unequivocal though and we have to leave our shoes by a cheap white IKEA rack. Misha fidgets uncomfortably. After all the dead crocodile cuddling his feet pulls an easy grand.
“Don’t worry, it would just be a minute” encourages Dorin.
“Good, at least I don’t have to leave my Patek Phillip at the door” smirks Misha.
A well-trodden soft pink carpet charts a path for our feet. At least I think it is pink, with my retina fighting off deep purple blotches all over, these are giving off by weak pocket lights shooting off the ceiling. It is semi-dark, save for few light shadows fixed upon the surrounding walls. There are exactly four of them are they are completely…blank. A perfect spot to meditate, but ominously low and armour-penetrating throbbing threatens to shatter my brains instead. Very, very large speakers produce the monstrosity that makes any idea of serene as far-fetched, as an impending lunch date on Mars. Perhaps the room should be renamed “Meditation by Knock-Out” – fast and efficient achievement of Nirvana. I bet Buda would be jealous.
Predictably, few L-bars lurk in the shadows. As pleasant a thought, the moaning all-penetrating noise assures high turnover at the exhibit. “Sorry” Misha stumbles upon something in a dark spot behind one of the two pillars. I strain to see the object of his apology. It is a human judging by a thick hippie beard, some tangled hair and a pair of bulging eyes. His features pale and all of them nervously wrapped up so tight and unmovable like a Hawaiian gecko in sheer terror of an impending road collision with a set of premium tires. He is not about to respond. Besides, he has a large writing pad in front of him. Exuding concentration and purpose – it is stark empty.
With crocodile collected intact by the human pointer (boy, he’d better get paid a lot) we transition back onto the mute sterility of the main tarmac. Suddenly, a screen – it is black and white, exhibiting something awkward in the area of nasal hair. Predictably stationary at first, the object moves just enough to make out a nose, a leg and even something resembling a limp penis. All four of us rush to the description plaque. You know we are human after all – throw in a pinch of pornography and we can camp out here all day. But that belongs, or used to, to the 42nd Street. Here it takes a way more gentile turn with some dude deciding to film himself sleeping for full six hours. It is surely avant-guard, especially since his simian body is stark naked, except for the courtesy of a thin hospital blanket, and he rigged few camera angles to keep things loosy-goosy, you know, interesting. Having outrun the tape every six hours, the process is repeated with screeching determination until the lights go out at night.
“Sometimes having a state-wide electrical black-out is a blessing” remarks Dorin, poignantly – walking away from the crackling black and white cinematography with not a single sign of remorse. This is the opposite to what happens to folks when they finally peel their eyes off Mona Lisa.
Trundling higher by the Dante circles of Guggenheim, we pass many more a creative exercise that include an absolutely blank canvass, a pair of work gloves affixed in the most solid state to a can of dried up paint and a plethora of wall scribbles that my one year old would be happy to improve upon. Any new nooks no longer contain anything remotely close to Kandinsky with the exception of a colour moving feature, depicting a delectable process of wasp nest formation. Just like the parading Parisian bourgeoisie of the Belle Epoch, the wasps are unyielding in their quest for things of scarcity and comfort. Alas, one busy wasp nest is not match for Champs Elysees.
The only remaining explanation for our continuing quest towards the roof at this stage remains the enchanting pair of white-gloved hands hoisting “mukulatura” up and down the deep art well that us Guggenheim. Finally, we are within a striking distance. Now only a large pile of mukulatura” separates us from the apparition in gloves. I hold my breath and squeeze few L-bar observers and the pile. Curious, I can’t help and pick up a couple of torn strips. To amazement the print reveals nothing of Scott or Dostoyevsky. Mercilessly ripped and meticulously pulverized, the pitiful human remainders are nothing but discarded accounting ledgers. My, disappointed anew, mind races to Arthur Andersen’s shredding prowess right before their sinking in the wake left by crooks at Enron – “That is where it all went!”
“Do not touch!!!” punches the air. I have hard time reconciling the shrill to the noble soft white gloves. The clandestine curtain has been lifted and there is nothing but a large employee badge and a pair of eyes caught in a moment of sheer authoritative rage.
I jump out of the way. Shocked, I muster a singularly quiet “I’m sorry”. The shiny employee badge retreats into its sharp-fangled cocoon of watchful placidity. Now, I know that once across the reverent doors of Guggenheim the difference between “mukulatura” and Los Meninas is written off to oblivion.
“Vot tebe i mukulatura!” summarizes Misha, which is roughly translated into “They have handily had us all and there is no refund!”
Caught between the descending circles of white and a fast elevator to the exit, our choice is predictably blunt. Alas, even the floor buttons inside betray an undue degree of artistic creativity. Confused, we inevitably overshoot in our zeal to stop wasting time. As such, we quickly find ourselves in a subterranean “The Sackler Centre for Arts education”. Our surroundings brim over with eager crowds of local school students and foreigners on pre-packaged tours. There is not one to ask and we stumble upon on service door after another like blind kittens in search of milk. The doors are, inevitably, well-secured and alarmed, prohibiting our advances. There is much white shiny paint and reflective linoleum all around. All cringe and bolt back. Unfortunately, the retreat to the escalator is equally impossible since the elevator queue of humanity is armour-thick. The Japanese must have booked few extra plane loads to swap their economic misery for ours.
Eventually, a well-lit “EXIT” sign points to the end of hell. We crash through expecting fresh gusts of street pollution in our faces. But air is suspiciously still. It wafts of dust and cheap plastic. Guggenheim is unrelenting! Its souvenir shop with its expansive trinket displays spreads to arrest our progress to freedom. Like a fighter contemplating a punch, I take a momentary pause. My sights magically clear and I spot a breech between the L-bar crowds. We charge, giving up our last and best, filling air in our sails at last.
“At least I now know what not to do” says Zhenya as we giggle back to the parking lot.
“You mean avoid all things Guggenheim” unisons Dorin.
“Precisely. One of our oligarchs, Pinchuk to be precise, floated an idea of opening Guggenheim in Kiev. He bought a whole collection of matching nonsense and even asked for a governmental grant. What an idiot.” Zhenya continues.
“And that’s one project I know how to vote on” says Misha touting his people’s deputy ID.
The parking lot charges $30 for a mere hour and half as we depart in the lightest of spirits. After all, I know that my savings of avoiding anything that has to do with Damien Hirst and his formaldehyded sharks will handily exceed this modest outlay.
