Be sure and see my review of the exhibition, here.
A catalog is a strange beast, at times incomprehensible unless you have seen the show first, other times shining light on what you missed. I always buy the Whitney Biennial catalog – here’s my review of the 2019 catalog – and post my impressions.
At first glance I had flashbacks to 2019: the simple, one-color cover is an odd choice for a show that barely glanced at anything minimalist. Thankfully, it avoids the terrible design choices of 2019, worst of which was the silver-grey color of the text*. 2022 has nice black print on white paper (with one exception – more about that later) and a decent font size. My aging eyes are grateful. The cover is uninteresting, listing the artists in the show, the curators, and guest writers, and comes in orange, blue, or green. The day I was there, late in the show’s run (it closed in early September) there were far more green covers than blue or orange – a reflection on sales, accident, coincidence? For the record, I bought a green. The pages are tabbed, like a reference book, which is okay, and a more interesting design choice than the cover.
*I was so turned off by the grey text that it colored my memories; re-reading my review, I had forgotten that I liked the writing, just not the printing. Presentation is important.
The contributors are presented in alphabetical order, with the curators and guest essayists included, which feels nicely democratic. Biennials are often a strange mixture of styles and media, appropriate for an art world that long since ceased to be monolithic, and catalogs try to impose order without judgement. The artists in this Biennial contributed their own bios/statements, which range from basic museum boilerplate style (I won’t cite examples; not all artists are writers) to deeply intellectual (Terence Nance, who goes deep without falling into jargon). While I miss the how-we-put-this-together aspect found in some catalogs, there are elements in essays by curators David Breslin and Adrienne Edwards, which seems sufficient. Since the artists say little about the show (how could they? The show was forming around them as they wrote) a sense of focus is hard to grasp.
One oddity is the contribution by EJ Hill, who is known for performance/durational work, with sidelights in installation and painting, takes the Biennial’s title, “Quiet As It’s Kept”, to heart. He did not show or perform any work, and his contribution to the catalog consists of a blank, pink page – pp. 135-6, if you’re interested. If the page is an artwork, visitors who didn’t buy the catalog missed out. As it is, this is unique in Hill’s work to date, and dodges passive-aggression through its hermetic nature. Whatever it is, it got me thinking, and isn’t that one of the purposes of art?
I’ll throw two quotes from the book that stuck in my head, the first from Alex Da Corte, whose video ROY G BIV was a highlight for me: “It is Friday but time does not exist here anymore. (p.90)” A little surrealism is always welcome.
Second, from painter Jane Dickson: “Everyone lives in a double helix of then and now, new experience entwining with the past. (p. 96)” A statement that could be applied to many exhibitions, especially surveys like a Biennial.
In all, an average catalog, with only a few standouts, but reading so many artists writing about themselves gives a peek into the broad spectrum of artistic expression. The book is hardcover and, at $50 feels a bit pricey, but with plentiful color illustrations and such a lineup, it’s worth it.
Art Matters 