19 Apr At the 23rd Biennale of Sydney, Sustainability Is Action
Source Credit: Content and images from Ocula Magazine. Read the original article - https://ocula.com/magazine/features/23rd-sydney-biennale/
Before they were dismissed 40 years ago, the Australian trade union Builders Labourers Federation worked with non-members to campaign against over-bearing urban commercial developments like One Barangaroo, an enormous tower that opened as Sydney came out of a long lockdown.
Known more generically as Crown Casino, the building is majoritarily owned by Mariah Carey’s ex-fiancé James Packer and overlooks the reformed sloping parkland of Barangaroo Reserve, a vertical dark apophyllite shaved down like Greenland ice.
Left to right: Cave Urban, Flow (2022) (detail). Courtesy the artists; Mata Aho Collective, He Toka Tū Moana: She’s a Rock (2022). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous support from Creative New Zealand. Courtesy the artists; Paula de Solminihac, Fogcatcher (2018–2021). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous assistance from Graeme and Mabie Briggs and assistance from the Catholic University of Chile and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs | Government of Chile. Courtesy the artist; Nicole Foreshew, YIRUNG BILA (SKY HEAVEN RIVER) (2022). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous support from the Australia Council for the Arts. Courtesy the artist. Exhibition view: The Cutaway at Barangaroo, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
For better of worse, this view is the first impression I glean of the environs hosting Sydney’s 23rd Biennale, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022), presenting 330 artworks by 89 participants organised by artistic director José Roca with curators Paschal Daantos Berry, Anna Davis, Hannah Donnelly, and Talia Linz.
Envisioned as ‘conceptual wetlands’, the theme—rīvus translates to ‘stream’ in Latin—is salient. Every year, as if on cue, water becomes topical for ‘good reason’ and the question of what is to be done gets raised again.
Leeroy New, Balete (2022) (detail). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous support from the Australia-ASEAN Council and assistance from Mirvac and Parramatta Artists’ Studios. Courtesy the artist. Exhibition view: Arts and Cultural Exchange, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
A viewer walking up to Stargazer Lawn at Barangaroo may pass Leaf Work (Derrigimlagh) (2020) by John Gerrard, an enormous six-square-metre reflective cube displaying virtual planes that stimulate real landscapes made with technology from the gaming industry—sensational, as if the enormous silver balls in the middle of Adelaide‘s Rundle Mall had a proximate older brother who studied ‘abroad’.
At the Stargazer Lawn, The Great Animal Orchestra (2016) by Bernie Krause and United Visual Artists is housed inside a white and rectangular tent, as if made by Belgianchocolatiers, though it is actually sponsored by Fondation Cartier, which is from a different part of Europe.
John Gerrard, Leaf Work (Derrigimlagh) (2020). Exhibition view: Galway International Arts Festival (3 September–31 October 2020). Commissioned by Galway International Arts Festival for Galway 2020, European Capital of Culture. © John Gerrard. Courtesy the artist and Pace Gallery. Photo: Ross Kavanagh.
Krause set out to do soundscape ecology in 1986, when the climate crisis was more Rachel Carson (think pesticides and Agent Orange) than Anne Carson (eschatology and mass extinction), and who used his animal recordings to lure a humpback whale that accidentally entered San Francisco Bay back into the Atlantic Ocean.
With each change to a recording of a different habitat, the mood shifts explicitly.
Darkness blankets the interiors of the tent, save for light seeping narcotically from the entryways and iPhones—like that of the attendee to my right, inexplicably scrolling through Toyota images—and the spectrogram visuals to our front.
Bernie Krause and United Visual Artists, The Great Animal Orchestra (2016). Multimedia installation. 1 min 32 sec. Collection Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain (acq. 2017). Exhibition view: The Great Animal Orchestra, Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain, Paris (2 July 2016–8 January 2017). © Bernie Krause. © United Visual Artists. Photo: Luc Boegly.
The ‘animal orchestra’ is made of field recordings and audiovisual representations of sonic footprints. The pitch and brevity of each animal sound is voluble; with each change to a recording of a different habitat, the mood shifts explicitly. Evoking either a Windows Media visualiser, a cardiogram, or an unhinged iVoice message from your last best friend, lines turn into print-like shapes—etchings, even—if you squint.
To see these musical patterns in the useful format of data is clarifying: the notes and pitch of birds like the red fox sparrow or the long-tailed jaeger are perfectly syncopated in the same way as a contemporary piece of music: played in common 3/4 or 6/8 time. Each beat has a point—hardly random.
Bernie Krause and United Visual Artists, The Great Animal Orchestra (2016). Multimedia installation, 92 min. Exhibition view: Sydney Opera House, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
The Biennale continues at the Walsh Bay Arts Precinct, originally the first site of commerce in Sydney, where the darkened antechamber suspended above water before Pier 2/3 contains Ghost Reef (2020–ongoing).
A collaboration between the Embassy of the North Sea and Xandra van der Eijk, several large, rectangular screens hang from the ceiling showing animated video collages of reef sections, hyper-close and reminiscent of perennial, herbaceous flowers. A nose away from the images, a view may become covered with the dappled light of nearby projectors, meeting an inspired frisson, as if daring viewers to do the predictable thing and take a selfie in the wall mirrors nearby.
Embassy of the North Sea, Open Manifestation Listening to the Sea (2019). Courtesy Hollandse Hoogte. Photo: Laurens van Putten.
This unlit antechamber functions like the mouth of a weir, opening into the main body of the pier where afternoon light generously alights upon anyone, and any work, within. Slumber Party (2022) by the collective Casino Wake Up Time immediately singles itself out. The iron skeletons of four different antique single beds sans cloth or duvet are positioned upright, diagonally, so that their ends meet in the centre.
Casino Wake Up Time is a collective of Bundjalung and Kamilaroi women from the inland New South Wales town of Casino, which may explain why ‘riparian zones, freshwater flow, kinship of plants and revitalisation of women’s cultural weaving practices’, imbibe the soul of the work—to quote the artists’ statements.
Kylie Caldwell, Woven Vessel nesting in paperbark tree (2021). © Casino Wake Up Time. Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney. Photo: Imbi Davidson.
Below this makeshift kiss of dormitory beds are a thoughtful miscellany of mats, adornments, and baskets weaved from native plants and weeds that came together, the artists say, over the course of the pandemic and its respective waves.
To the installation’s immediate left, an ecological initiative by the Sydney Institute of Marine Science, Living Seawalls, displays a sequence of 3D-printed panels Untitled (2022), reflecting similar proofs, or ethics. Concrete shapes, looking to be hexagonal at a glance, made from differently shaped moulds with ribbed or rippled surfaces are drilled into the wall with nails, lined up and conjoined.
Living Seawalls, Untitled (2022). Courtesy Living Seawalls. Exhibition view: Pier 2/3 Walsh Bay Arts Precinct, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
A video shows that these sculptures link together for practical reasons, as makeshift artificial habitats, or ‘anthropogenic substrates’, filmed underwater. Pictured in this footage, concealed cement forms enveloped with kelpy green mosses, growths, and flashes of fish with lunatic faces, motion themselves in and alongside.
Front to back: Julie Gough, p/re-occupied (2022) (detail). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous assistance from Arts Tasmania and the Australian Museum. Courtesy the artist; Clare Milledge, Imbás: a well at the bottom of the sea (2022) (detail). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous support from the Australia Council for the Arts. Courtesy the artist & STATION. Exhibition view: Pier 2/3 Walsh Bay Arts Precinct, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
The seemingly waterlogged beams holding up the greater space of Pier 2/3, now softened by time or indifference, play friends to installationsof size in the main space. Hanging ascetically from these beams are patches of off-white and grey canvas, each flayed with abstract black rubbings applied to seem abruptly interspatial, are sewn and strung together.
The artist Aluaiy Kaumakan is from the Paridrayan Community of Pingtung County in southern Taiwan, affected by the destruction caused by Typhoon Morakot in 2009. The event affected streams of life through an annunciation of various physical facts. The devastation made a return home an impossibility for so many, but for the artist, the chance of revisiting in a more spectral sense was its own brief possibility.
Aluaiy Kaumakan, Semasipu – Remembering Our Intimacies (2021–2022). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous support from the Taiwan Ministry of Culture and Cultural Division, Taipei Economic and Cultural Office in Sydney and assistance from the Council of Indigenous Peoples. Courtesy the artist, Paridrayan Community elder women, Linkous Kuljeljelje, Chun-Lun Chen & curator Biung Ismahasan. Exhibition view: Pier 2/3 Walsh Bay Arts Precinct, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
In an alcove to the right of this work, hidden behind the kind of cloth that might suggest an enormous photobooth, a single-channel video by Hanna Tuulikki, Seals’kin (2022), shows Tuulikki singing to seals in a bay, before dressing herself in some kind of onesie to resemble them.
A sincere reference to Scottish folklorian rituals of grief, Seals’kin‘s very literal claims to ‘mimesis’—as the brief patiently explains—fallsjust short of being affected, which speaks to the axioms of the 23rd Sydney Biennale overall, which claim to appreciate the living status of bodies of water.
Hanna Tuulikki, cloud-cuckoo-island (2016). Performance. Supported by the Bothy Project, Creative Scotland and Cooper Gallery, DJCAD, University of Dundee. Courtesy the artist.
The curatorial statement for rīvus points out how even something like a forest in Appalachia has been ‘granted rights’, and whispers a litany of rhetorical questions to disembodied viewers—’Can a river sue us over psychoactive sewage? Will oysters grow teeth in aquatic revenge? What do the eels think?’
It’s a nice poem that could find a home in some literary journal—questions posed without acknowledging that the hyper-liberal language of human rights so often prized by the Hillary Clintons of the world and used stickily here, have yet to adequately protect these ecosystems.
Naziha Mestaoui, One Beat, One Tree (2012). Presentation at the 23rd Biennale of Sydney (2022) was made possible with generous support from Penelope Seidler AM. Courtesy the artist’s estate. Exhibition view: Art Gallery of New South Wales, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
There are ‘streams’ that technically represent the few discernible lines of free-space snaking through this show, which collect and finish with the pronunciation of three works. Melissa Dubbin and Aaron S. Davidson’s The Cloud in the Ocean (2022) is a series of glass bulbs and tubes, some shaped like intestines, all connected to each other.
The tubes lead water upward, around, and below into a shallow bubbling tank of saline solution on the ground, simulating the transfer of heat from the ocean floor. Borosilicate glass that looks blown by hand is neatly arranged to create its own network, the whole standing around nine-feet tall.
Melissa Dubbin and Aaron S. Davidson, Delay Lines (2019). Exhibition view: If the Snake, Okayama Art Summit, Okayama City (27 September–24 November 2019). Courtesy the collection of Ishikawa Foundation, Okayama, Japan. Photo: Ola Rindal.
If the latter’s rationale follows natural patterns, Moré Moré (Leaky): Variations (2022) by Yuko Mohri to its left, while echoing something similar—levering, reusing, alleviating, and rerouting water—is not, in its own way, coded as thinking, but as a series of unfortunare events.
An umbrella barely catches water that pours into a canvas bough strung to the ceiling that drips into a funnel before being carried upward through a transparent hose. A series of levers carry the water as if through the framework of a primary school scientific experiment. An invigilator stands to the side, motioning attendees away from stepping too close.
Yuko Mohri, Moré Moré (Leaky): Variations (2022). Commissioned by the Biennale of Sydney with generous assistance from the Commonwealth through the Australia – Japan Foundation, which is part of the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, The Japan Foundation, Sydney and the Pola Art Foundation, Yoshino Gypsum Art Foundation, and assistance from the Nomura Foundation. Courtesy the artist, Project Fulfill Art Space, and Mother’s Tank Station Ltd. Exhibition view: Pier 2/3 Walsh Bay Arts Precinct, 23rd Biennale of Sydney, rīvus (12 March–13 June 2022). Courtesy 23rd Biennale of Sydney.
There’s a reclamation going on here that is almost skeletal, with varying ‘uncontrollable and nonhuman’ elements cooperating, evoking kitsch as much as it does evaporation—a self-contained ecosystem within the larger, symbolic ecosystem of the Biennale. To quote a friend deliberately misquoting RuPaul, ‘We, as gay people, get to choose our own biennial theses.’
If I’ve sounded uncharitable, I don’t mean it. Care is threaded throughout rīvus and its assemblies of work that contemplate disaster while considering the soul inside disparate environmental forces that suspend it. ‘Sustainability should be an action, not a theme,’ a wall text states. I agree. —[O]
Source Credit: Content and images from Ocula Magazine. Read the original article - https://ocula.com/magazine/features/23rd-sydney-biennale/