Review: 2022 Biennial: "Quiet as It’s Kept" @ Whitney
The sheer amount of ideas made me claustrophobic
The idea of the work of art as an imaginative achievement to which the audience freely responds is now too often replaced by the assumption that a work of art should promote a particular idea or ideology, or perform some clearly defined civic or community service
— Jed Perl
We—the group with whom I visited the Whitney—had to take a coffee break on the roof after viewing the first of the two floors that make up the institution’s 80th biennial—titled, in this iteration, “Quiet As It’s Kept.”
Sixty-three artists and collectives are crammed between the sixth—a dark maze made up mostly of video art—and fifth floors—a wide-open playground where pacing is thrown out the window; a third act that undoes the momentum hitherto created by its co-curators, David Breslin and Adrienne Edwards.
The reason for the caffeine pit-stop was to recharge, which we ultimately did while praising Adam Pendleton’s striking film, Ruby Nell Sales (2020-22), the work with which we spent the most time, and shit-talking the majority of what else we had veni, vidi, vici’d.
Jerry Saltz hilariously opened his review thus: “About 20 percent of the 2022 Whitney Biennial is really alive.” He goes on to say that that figure ain’t too shabby for a grab-bag freakshow such as this. He’s correct on the former point, however, on the latter, he’s off. Shouldn’t this powerhouse of American art—the longest-running survey of its kind—pack a bigger punch? I want to be on the ground wheezing—not because I’ve run out of breath reading the wall text, but because the presentation is a gluttonous buffet of crème de la crème pieces so delectable I can’t help but choke.
The show’s intro text begins by way of an apology. “We began planning this Biennial in late 2019” prior to the pandemic and summer of uprisings following the murder of George Floyd, it reads. While BLM, racism, classism, queerness, institutional critique, post-colonial thought, and Indigenous rights are all addressed within, the politics of “Quiet As It’s Kept” feel muted. Each sculpture, painting, installation, or film had its own voice that gets drowned out by the sheer magnitude of messages.
I believe art should have a purpose beyond looking good (even my ass has a second function); however, I also wonder, does a seat at the table necessitate using your space to rally behind a cause?
The sheer amount of ideas made me claustrophobic. Not because I disagreed with them, but because I came away with an incoherent picture of the whole, clouded by the parts of its sum. (Not to mention an ugly piece is rarely redeemed by its cause.) Surely a more focused presentation would allow the Whitney to at least claim a stronger thesis than the bumbling, “Rather than offering a unified theme, we pursue a series of hunches throughout the exhibition.” What does that even mean?
One example of art that provokes but doesn’t announce its intentions so stridently is Dave McKenzie’s Nauman-esque video, Accessories (2022) in which the artist performs “movement studies” with a sheet of plexiglass. Lying supine on the floor, McKenzie writhes underneath the object. He dances with the object, too. There’s a poetic streak to an act that could logically be called absurd. The artist, in his statement, dares the viewer to balk, to wonder whether this really constitutes art. I love it. Of the film, McKenzie said, “I am always decidedly asking ‘Why this?’ Lately I am equally interested in asking ‘Why not?’ and moving without having come up with any answer.”
The aforementioned Pendleton was a showcase of civil rights activist Ruby Sales who was nearly gunned down by a segregationist in 1965; a white man jumped in the bullet’s way and died as a result. Sales sagaciously talks about America’s racism problem with the bravado of a weatherworn elder. Her testimony, her vision, her pride are all revelatory to watch. Coming in hot off a major display in the MoMA’s atrium, Pendleton, in a just world, would become a household name as a result.
It’s here that I want to admit something. Mea culpa. I didn’t read the text on all the pieces and even missed a few here and there. This faux pas, though, is not entirely an indictment of my character. The show, as I mentioned before, is too big. In doing research for this review, I learned that one element of the Biennial is a recreation of the facade of a defunct Meatpacking District gay club situated outside the museum. I didn’t even see it. It just slipped right by me. I’m sure I’m not alone in this mistake, but I regret it nonetheless.
What I don’t regret missing was the muddled message of Alfredo Jaar’s 06.01.2020 18.39, a video of a D.C.-area Black Lives Matter protest replete with heavyhanded helicopter wind courtesy of several, idk, oversized Dyson dryers above the viewer’s head. Jaar calls the scene fascism. After so many events of the Trump presidency culminating in the Jan. 6 insurrection, it feels quaint that he equates calling America fascistic with like a revelation worth declaring.
The last great piece on the sixth floor was the mesmerizing series of videos (all either from 2001 or 2001-2002) by Tony Cokes. Each features a pre-9/11 New York skyline interlaid with text quoted from great thinkers. It’s the post-cenceptualist schtick he’s known for, but what can I say, it hits.
Next floor (you tired yet?): (Even my review is losing its momentum.) The setup of the fifth floor allows for more light to come in, however, this does not illuminate the works or help make sense of why they are set up how they are. What I mean is this floor has all the curatorial appeal of a science fair: pieces are tucked away in corners or propped up on wooden dioramas, its placements haphazard.
One great example is the mini-retrospective of South Korean-born artist Theresa Hak Kyung Cha whose career was cut short when she was raped and murdered by a Manhattan security guard in 1982. Instead of giving the artist a voice, she is silenced. Her pavilion of sorts is filled with her video art and works on paper, though the videos are muted, the institution propping her up just to silence her. It’s a glaring mistake for an artist such as Cha for whom language is integral to her body of work.
What did work? Well, I liked Eric Wesley’s giant drinking bird. It would be easy to shit on because it doesn’t point to anything profound, but it's unique. It stands out among the crowd as something playful.
Speaking of play, I really fucked with Awilda Sterling-Duprey’s “…blindfolded” series for which the Puerto Rican artist donned the eponymous eye cloth and dance-painted several canvases. The results are abstract works, which were performed on-site, that let go of the need for control and instead allow touch to guide a meditative practice.
Occasionally, it was the familiar that shined brightest. I’d seen the paintings of Jane Dickson before and her style even recalls the roadside attractions of Ed Ruscha’s work. Based on photos Dickson took while living in Times Square in the 1980s, the five paintings that hang toward the back left corner of the room, all from 2020 or the year prior, are concerned with neon signs. “SAVE TIME” one prompts in red letters. The lights shout this message while behind the artist has rendered multiple washers and dryers that pepper what was likely a 24-hour laundromat.
Another features movie marquees while its partner below advertises 99c DREAMS. The diurnal lighting is alluring, the throwback to a bygone New York flirts easily with nostalgia. And while I generally find nostalgia to be cheap (99c Dreams, one could call it), it works here, Disckon’s style is simple and clean; undemanding but commanding.
One last work I enjoyed on floor five was Leidy Churchman’s Mountains Walking (2022). The momentous piece, almost a triptych, is long and is an obvious homage to Monet’s water lilies. It abstractly plays with lines, which unfurl like waves, each a different color of earthy greens and blues with some pinks and purples to add character and further draw away from any concrete image.
Our group stayed until we were kicked out. There is a lot to see. At coat check, we lamented that a return to the Whitney was inevitable. I’ll need more time to see it all. More time to contemplate the pieces I did see and more time to consider the ones I skipped or missed. "Quiet as It’s Kept" is a biennial that throws a lot at the wall hoping it all will stick. While everyone will come away with his own favorites, there are obvious weak points. It plays a lot safe. It’s got a big smile but the teeth are false, the mouth gummy and unable to properly chew and swallow what it’s attempting to masticate. Maybe in two years, without a pandemic disrupting the plans, they’ll get it right. But I wouldn’t hold out hope.
Verdict: *** / *****