My new show, Bullet Time, showcases the work of two New Zealand video artists who conjure with time—Daniel Crooks and Steve Carr. It places them in the context of two historical photographers, pioneers of motion studies—Eadweard Muybridge (1830–1904) and Harold Edgerton (1903–90)—acknowledging them as precursors, influences and reference points. In the process, it engages a complex history of interaction between science and art, photography and cinema, technology and consciousness, thought and feeling.

The show’s title comes from the cinema special-effect made famous by The Matrix (1999). For ‘bullet time’ effects, a set of still cameras surrounding a subject are fired simultaneously or almost simultaneously. Compiled as a movie, the shots offer an orbiting view of the subject, either frozen in time or in super-slow motion, messing with our sense of space and time.

The Matrix’s bullet-time effects looked back to the work of Eadweard Muybridge. In the nineteenth century, there was much debate about whether a horse’s hooves all come off the ground at once during the gait. It occurred too fast to see with the naked eye. The former Californian Governor, railways magnate, and racehorse breeder Leland Stanford engaged Muybridge, the photographer, to furnish evidence to settle the matter. Using a bank of cameras with fast shutters triggered by trip wires, he captured a succession of images of a horse in full stride, proving the theory of ‘unsupported transit’. These images forever changed the way we see horses and led to the development of the cinema.

Based in Melbourne, Daniel Crooks generates bewildering time-space warps by rearranging slivers of digital video information. His Time Slice works look back to Muybridge and to the slit-scan photography used for racetrack photofinishes, and nod to the metaphors used to explain relativity.

At Massachusetts Institute of Technology, in the 1930s, Harold Edgerton pioneered the use of stroboscopic flash photography to study motion. He froze running water, splashes of milk, athletes in action, bullets ripping through balloons, apples, bananas, and playing cards, and exploding atomic bombs. While his work revealed scientific truths, it often had a spectacular, erotic aspect.

Riffing on Edgerton, Steve Carr uses slow-motion to observe bursting paint-filled balloons and bullets tearing open apples. He’s less interested in the scientific aspect than the semiological one. Bullet Time also includes his six-channel video installation Transpiration (2014). Filmed with a time-lapse camera, white carnations planted in dyed water slowly absorb its hues, blushing with colour. (City Gallery Wellington, 25 March–10 July 2016.) (Here’s my essay.)

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Julian Dashper has been a key figure in New Zealand art since the mid-1980s. He changed the way we think about New Zealand art history. Dashper made art about art. Some of his works pay homage to older celebrated artists, particularly canonical figures of New Zealand art, including Colin McCahon and Rita Angus; others address the workings of the art system. From the mid-1990s, he increasingly exhibited overseas, becoming an international artist. Dashper died of melanoma in 2009—he was just 49. Today, he represents a transitional figure between the ‘New Zealand painting’ that preceded him and the new generation of post-nationalist, post-medium artists that followed.

Dashper was an important artist for me. I can’t think of another artist who has been as influential on my practice as a curator. So, it’s been a huge pleasure to curate the exhibition Julian Dashper & Friends. It’s a tribute show, and, for me, something of a labour of love.

Dashper’s work was self-consciously art historical—it was always in dialogue with other artists’ work. He was one of New Zealand’s most influenced artists and one of its most influential artists. Because of that, I thought that presenting his work in splendid isolation would be confusing, like listening in to one side of a phone conversation. So, instead, my show presents his works in conversation with works by other artists—his elders, his contemporaries, and younger artists. These ‘friends’ include Rita Angus, Billy Apple, Daniel Buren, Fiona Connor, Colin McCahon, Dane Mitchell, Milan Mrkusich, John Nixon, John Reynolds, Peter Robinson, Marie Shannon, Imants Tillers, Peter Tyndall, Jan van der Ploeg, and Gordon Walters. Friendship wasn’t incidental to Dashper’s project, it was his medium. (Julian Dashper & Friends, City Gallery Wellington, 5 December 2015–15 May 2016.) (Here’s my essay and here’s Peter Ireland’s review.)

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Wellington art dealer Peter McLeavey is no longer with us, but his legend lives on. Indeed, it grows stronger. Facebook is creaking with tributes, with everyone claiming a connection. McLeavey was a brilliant gallerist, a consummate salesman, a storyteller. It’s hard to imagine New Zealand art without him. In Wellington in the late 1960s and 1970s, he pioneered art dealing—at least, his brand of it. He was influential. Those who followed, especially in Wellington, had to contend with his example, his preeminence.

He had his shtick. Although visitors to his gallery had met him countless times before, McLeavey would sometimes pretend they were strangers. He’d greet them with an odd mix of humility and presumption. He’d say, ‘Hello, my name is Peter McLeavey. I show modern art. I know what the old people think of my gallery. But tell me, what about the young people in the discotheques—what do they think of my gallery?’ When Hamish McKay opened his gallery in Wellington in the early 1990s, he put his own spin on McLeavey’s routine. When people visited his gallery—the young people’s gallery—McKay would say, ‘Hello, my name is Hamish McKay. I show contemporary art. I know what the young people think of my gallery. But tell me, what about the old people on their heart-lung machines—what do they think of my gallery?’

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And, with McLeavey, there was much to imitate. His departure creates a vacuum.

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Olafur Eliasson’s The Cubic Structural Evolution Project (2004) must be one of the most popular participatory works ever. Since being acquired by Brisbane’s Queensland Art Gallery in 2005, it has been shown all around Australia. Now it’s touring New Zealand. It’s been at Dunedin Public Art Gallery and Auckland Art Gallery, and it’s currently here at City Gallery Wellington. Eliasson’s Project is catnip for punters and catnip for the museums who want to pull them. Who can say no?

The Project is a long table covered with zillions of white Lego blocks. Visitors are invited to participate, by making what they will from the blocks. As they do, forms emerge from the rubble and collapse back into it. No one tells participants to create architectural forms, but almost everyone does. Someone replicates Chartres Cathedral, others build skyscrapers or Jetsons-inspired sci-fi minarets. The Project is a utopian nowhere, but every building is ‘destination’ architecture. Starchitect gimmickry abounds.

Sometimes participants start from scratch, sometimes they cannibalise what went before. As more blocks are used up, participants tear down existing structures to build their own or just for the hell of it. A few may collaborate, but typically it’s every man for himself. Participants show off, trying to build the tallest, biggest, stupidist, or most distinctive signature thing. We all become Howard Roark.

The Project looks like a city skyline in a constant state of evolution, emergence, and becoming. It’s amazing, but also a mess. We get skyscrapers, but no streetscape, no town planning. It’s unregulated, cancerous, a developer’s paradise, like Sao Paulo or the Gold Coast. There’s something psychologically or culturally revealing about what participants build and how they build it—aspirational penile skyscrapers abound. There’s a sense of inevitability, as similar structures are endlessly reinvented. (The Project is as much about blocks expressing themselves through people as about people expressing themselves through blocks.)

The Project’s popularity has also been its curse. On the one hand, it is routinely framed as a happy-clappy kids activity, forgetting the art part. On the other, participants get caught in the thrall of their own artistry and forget that it’s someone else’s art work. Content with a spike in visitation, museums routinely collude in the confusion, as long as punters keep coming back. In Wellington, one night, after everyone had gone, we had to clean up some piss—a kid wouldn’t surrender their seat. At another gallery, the Project was so popular that they added a sign telling parents that brats must take turns—twenty-minutes max!

That rather missed the point, because the Project is not about fair. It’s about anarchy. If someone wants to demolish everyone else’s structures—that’s fine. If someone wants to be there all month and create their new Berlin by hogging all the blocks—that’s fine. If someone doesn’t get a go at all and starts crying—tough titties. The Project is about human interaction, good, bad, and ugly. It’s about competing desires and world views and how they play out. It’s about ‘the city’.

So, while the Project is fun for all ages, it also has a dark, septic side. It may be spruiked as a sharing group activity, but it demonstrates how venal and solipsistic we all are. It may be hailed as a showcase for everyday creativity, yet it finds everyone endlessly ploughing the same mental ruts. That’s why I’m rather pleased by how we are currently presenting it at City Gallery. In his show Demented Architecture, curator Aaron Lister has played the spoil sport, by surrounding the Eliasson with other works that riff on architectures of doom and on architects as cranks, meglomaniacs, and fascists—lest we forget. In doing so, he has restored a political context—and a bitter aftertaste—to this wonderful, but too-much-beloved work, where the patients build the asylum.

Demented Architecture, City Gallery Wellington, until 8 November.

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I recently found myself on a panel at Wellington’s Massey University, as part of their Art School of the Future symposium. Industry representatives were asked the question: What do your organisations want from art schools? I spoke for art museums:
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There are three big sectors or wheels in the art world: the market, the museums (in which I include alternative spaces, art criticism, public funding, etc), and the art schools. These wheels turn one another as well as themselves. Those of us in the market and museums sectors sometimes think we are the be-all and end-all, that art school is something you pass through on the way to the real world of the market and the museums. However, from the years I’ve been on the scene, I know this isn’t true. Art school never goes away—you can check out but you can never leave.

Although art schools are a big player, their influence on the other sectors can be piecemeal, masking the extent and nature of that influence. Art schools can be to the market and museums what dark matter is to the rest of the universe: pervasive, invisible, influential. As a curator, I am constantly interfacing with art schools and art-school culture, in different capacities, to different ends. I work with artists who teach and artists who study. I tap into art-school funding and residency programmes, I drop by to participate in art-school discussions, and art schools represent a key part of my audience.

The art world looks different depending on which sector you spend most of your time in. That determines who you talk to, in what order, and what language you speak. Each sector contains good and bad. There is a joyous, communal aspect to inter-sector and infra-sector interaction (‘the art life’), but there is also a bitter, agonistic one. Each sector wants things from the others; each wants to co-opt the others to its own ends, to turn them into enablers. And, each wants to safeguard itself from co-option, to not be made an enabler itself.

What do museums want from art schools? First, better art from students and staff. Not box-ticking, sausage-factory art. Not production-line expressions of art-school priorities and in-grown research-evaluation methodologies, approved by the ethics committee. Art that is audacious and transformative, that adds something, that changes the landscape. Second, bigger audiences, more art-school participation in what we are doing. Students and staff should be a larger and more regular part of the museum audience. Informed art-engaged audiences help us to raise the level of the discussion. (With regard to this, there is a good side to art schools having their own galleries, museums, seminar programs, residencies, publications, etc. It can facilitate engagement. But, it can also do the opposite, making art schools into gated communities—self-serving, self-sufficient, solipsistic; art worlds unto themselves, ultimately disengaged with the art world beyond. Too often, engagement is the argument, but isolation the reality. Art school becomes a wheel turning nothing but itself.) Third, capital. We want access to art-school energies, networks, resources, and, always, money—without strings attached, of course.

Museums want what’s good for museums. We want art schools to deliver flowers, pay for dinner, and open doors for us, but also to respect us when we say ‘no, not tonight, I have a headache’. In short, we want art schools to treat us as ends not means (while we happily treat them as means not ends). Love is a battlefield.

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My new exhibition—Unseen City: Gary Baigent, Rodney Charters, and Robert Ellis in Sixties Auckland—just opened at Te Uru, in Titirangi. It’s a pet project. The show grew out of my fondness for two works made by then-young artists in the 1960s—Rodney Charters’s short film Film Exercise (1966) and Gary Baigent’s photobook The Unseen City: 123 Photographs of Auckland (1967).

In the 1960s, Auckland was growing. Its population passed half a million and new motorways were enabling suburban sprawl. It was also the dawn of the counterculture. In both the Baigent and the Charters works, roads, cars, and motorbikes play starring roles. Both works contrast a conservative older generation with the beautiful young people. Now, they read as time capsules.

Originally, my plan was to simply juxtapose the film and the photos. Robert Ellis came in later, when the discovery of some little-known 1960s drawings revealed how much Auckland’s new motorways had informed his iconic Motorways paintings.

For me, the show has personal resonance. I was born in Auckland in 1963. Most of the images were made when I was a small child. While they tally with my earliest memories, they concern a place I never really knew. And, I suspect, for others—and in different ways—the show may be something of a nostalgia trip.

Unseen City runs until 16 August 2015. If you can’t get to Titirangi, the show comes to City Gallery Wellington in December. Thanks to Andrew Clifford and his team at Te Uru. (Here’s my essay, and here’s John Hurrell’s review and Tim Corballis’s.)

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New Zealand has just opened its national pavilion at the Venice Biennale—Simon Denny’s Secret Power. The Biennale is one of the world’s biggest contemporary-art events and the mother of all art biennales. City Gallery is a partner in the New Zealand pavilion project. I’m here, as curator; so is City Gallery Registrar Amber Baldock, who has been overseeing the installation.

In the past, New Zealand has sent great artists and great projects to Venice, but this year things are different, because Denny is not only a great artist, he is ‘in play’—there’s huge interest in the work internationally. Denny has a big solo show on at MOMA PS1, New York. Secret Power has already been reviewed by the New York Times and the Guardian, and there are features on Denny in new issues of Art in America, Artforum, Mousse, and Frieze (indeed, Frieze just launched its new issue in the show). Secret Power has also been listed by numerous pundits as one of the Biennale’s must-sees.

The show is bizarre and stunning. There are two venues. In both, old meets new.

In the Renaissance-period Marciana Library, Denny has installed a ‘server room’, in which server racks double as vitrines. In them, Denny explores the ‘visual culture’ of the intelligence agencies responsible for global mass surveillance, New Zealand’s GCSB among them. The ensemble of server-vitrines is framed, in turn, by the Library, with its paintings by Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese, and Co. (which celebrate knowledge, wisdom, and civic duty) and masterpieces of cartography by Fra Mauro, Vincenzo Coronelli, and others. In short, Denny has framed a current representation of world power within a historical one, generating semiotic correspondences and allegorical ricochets. His display combines the seductive and the repulsive, the awesome and the trivial.

The other venue is the arrivals lounge in the terminal at Marco Polo Airport. The terminal opened just after 9/11, as the world entered a new political epoch. Here, Denny has framed a historical representation of world power within a contemporary one, transposing actual-size photographic representations of the decorated interior of the Marciana Library (with those old-master paintings) onto the floors and walls. Visitors can ponder these obsolete examples of power-knowledge as they are themselves surveilled and processed. Denny’s Airport installation looks like marketing—many assume it is.

There’s lots more to be said—perhaps too much. Secret Power is an expansive project about big ideas. In it, the artist’s grand ambitions are scrambled with the grand ambitions of both today’s intelligence agencies and yesteryear’s librarians. All of whom would—in NSAese—‘sniff it all, collect it all, know it all, process it all, exploit it all’. It’s been a pleasure. (Here’s my essay.)

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At City Gallery, we are currently presenting photographer Jono Rotman’s Mongrel Mob Portraits, featuring members of the notorious New Zealand street gang. The subject matter is contentious, even incendiary, but Rotman offers his subjects without indictment. His Mob photos were first shown last year at a dealer gallery, Auckland’s Gow Langsford Gallery, where they proved controversial. For City Gallery, co-curator Aaron Lister and I added in new Rotman images to expand on the Gow Langsford show. We were particularly keen to include Sean Wellington and Sons (2009). In this portrait, Sean turns his back to us—we see his patch, but not his face. He carries his two sons, who face us. They wear tiny Mongrel Mob shirts. It’s the sweetest and the heaviest image in the show. People see gangs as abhorrent but also see children as innocent, and it’s hard to reconcile these assumptions when you look at this picture. You realise that people are born into gangs and that the Mob is a community generations deep. While Rotman’s other portraits are about what has happened (he refers to his sitters as ‘artefacts’), Sean Wellington and Sons is about the future—what will happen. It prompts us to imagine the lives these boys will live. Jono Rotman: Mongrel Mob Portraits, City Gallery, until 14 June.

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German artist Peter Roehr died in 1968, aged just 23. During his tragically brief career, he produced a remarkable body of works employing appropriation and repetition. Bridging the preoccupations of pop and minimalism, his film montages (all 1965) repeat short excerpts of found footage: shampoo commercials, wrestlers, cars on highways, petrol-station signs. Roehr wrote: ‘I change material by repeating it unchanged. The message is the behaviour of the material in response to the frequency of its repetition.’ Holger Liebs says, ‘His contemporaries did not immediately recognise the quality of Roehr’s work. Roehr’s series, with their dogged, tautological order, were in many ways so much in step with the trends of their times—among them the aesthetics of information theory, structuralism and minimal art—that their peculiarity long remained overlooked.’ In his montages, Roehr’s generic anonymous source clips take on a new affective scale; the contingent and banal becoming definitive, monumental, even mythic. On the one hand, the montages are frustrating, suggesting that time is attenuated or stuck; on the other hand, they foreground the pleasure of sheer repetition. Peter Roehr: Film Montages, City Gallery, 16 March–27 June 2015. (Here’s Tim Carballis’s review.)

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Gunther, a rugged, loincloth-wearing male, is based on memories of a commune in the Kaipara district near my uncle and aunt’s farm. I never went there but heard the stories from my cousins. The commune encouraged a casual atmosphere where nudism was practised. One of the mothers was often naked, sunbathing on a banana lounger, her overgrown pubic area a topic of lengthy discussion among my cousins and me. Instead of consuming lollies and biscuits like normal kids, the children of the commune ate handfuls of savoury yeast from large jars and had odd names like Shanu and Cyrus. We embellished their parents’ nudity to high levels of perversity, although the boring truth was that they were gentle hippies, self-sufficient, working the land, making feijoa wine.
—Yvonne Todd
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Check out my epic Yvonne Todd exhibition Creamy Psychology at City Gallery Wellington. 6 December 2014–1 March 2015.