Being somewhat of an art neophyte when it comes to physical artistic products- both sculptures and paintings generally confound me in their simplicity- I felt somewhat vulnerable in the Museum of Modern Art this weekend. Surrounded by camera yielding tourists and genuine art junkies in unequal numbers, I felt like a fraud as I stared absently at pieces which, in my seemingly ignorant opinion, did not qualify as artful in both the most common sense of the word or even in a more forgiving Warholian sense. I strove to find something inspirational in what I saw before me. Other people seemed to be conjuring up the first chapter of their third novel as they sat staring at blank canvases and old shoes- I, like Danto’s child who saw sticks as sticks, had nothing.
Eventually, I turned a corner- a literal corner as opposed to one of the more psychological variety. As I meandered ignorantly through the Judith Rothschild foundation contemporary drawings collection, I stumbled upon a piece that I found myself compelled to examine. ‘Screamadelica’, a piece by Scottish visual artist Jim Lambie, featured extensive gaffer tape that stretched across the walls like a spider’s web- crawling and spreading threateningly across the otherwise clean white surface. Eyes that looked as though they had been cut out of a giant magazine looked through the gaps in the web, some in groups, a few scattered individuals, and some almost completely camouflaged by the web. What drew me to the piece primarily was that I felt the eyes staring- they were analysing and judging me. It was though they could see my soul and dismantle my spirit- they knew what I was thinking and sensed my fear.
The eyes, which were of different genders and races, also looked at each other. Some appeared to be conspiring with one another, others more suspicious. They were not sure if they trusted one another. I was a goldfish in a proverbial bowl with no access to those who watched me. I felt trapped and suddenly angry. I wanted to rip the tape from the wall and thus destroy my captors. I wanted to expose the peeping toms but it was as though they were embedded in the wall. At the same time I remained unsure as to whether I’d be happy if they were to disappear. Perhaps I would feel empty or alone- perhaps I need them in order to feel alive. Amongst this confusion, I saw the reflection of my own generation- the subjects and objects of phenomena such as Big Brother and Facebook- continually being watched by our peers, constantly dealing with scrutiny and judgement. One can keep no secrets from the eyes.
When I eventually plied myself from the chair to which I had been glued for over thirty minutes, I still felt the eyes on the back of my neck. They were watching me walk away, escaping their penetrating gaze. I felt a sense of relief as I strode out into the hot sun, away from Jim Lambie’s ‘screamadelic’ eyes, but into the eyes of the increasingly more supervised world.