luxury toilet paper

Review of "Grisaille" at Luxembourg & Dayan Gallery @ 64 E. 77th St. New York, NY 10075

 The title of Luxembourg & Dayan’s latest exhibition in New York City makes no attempt to deceive; Grisaille, a term applied to gray monochrome Renaissance paintings, consists precisely of works—spanning from the 16^th century to the present—that are almost entirely in such a palette. However, while the gallery’s press release claims the show “explores broadly the conceptual impact of a centuries-old painting paradigm upon key figures of modern and contemporary art,” its execution provides quite the contrary impression. The overall effect of its installation: an emphasis on the curatorial interests of Alison Gingeras, as opposed to a platform that provides fresh insight into individual works. Further exaggerated by the works’ contrast against the gallery’s brightly painted walls, the result is an ostentatious exercise in interior decoration that may attract attention mostly because the Ikea vases and $30 wall décor have been replaced by Frank Stellas and Jeff Koons busts. Incidentally, what I enjoyed most about the show was the untitled bathroom installation piece by Bjarne Melgaard, most likely because it was one of the few pieces that was able to break apart from Gingeras’ curatorial grips. As far as the “theme” was concerned, I saw little trace of grisaille’s influence on Melgaard’s motivation for the piece; it only seemed to belong there because the colors suited the show’s purposes. Other works were less fortunate since they were easier to render as objects, and therefore prone to being lost as one of many props in the curator’s own large-scale (but still cramped) installation.

Repulsive or comical? On one hand, the show creates major difficulties in appreciating each great work individually—some, I might say, that deserve a room of their own to give them justice—and beyond mere form and color. Especially atrocious examples this crime were the blue room on the second floor containing works portraying the female figure and the red room on the fourth floor that contained canvases with various lacy motifs. On the other hand, it is amazing to consider that the curator can so effectively strip the divine aura surrounding the works of such huge art world heavy-hitters like Andy Warhol and Robert Morris and apply a remarkably disinterested perspective of the veterans than they otherwise might receive on a Chelsea white cube pedestal for an honorary (and costly) retrospective. The yellow room on the second floor serves as a positive example of the curator’s power; the thickly sculpted eyes in Francesco Clemente’s Grilsaille Self-Portrait, 1998 stares at the viewer with different meaning when flanked by the minimalist works of Daniel Buren, Gerhard Richter, and Carl Andre. In other words, the power of Gingeras’ hand is undeniably consistent, whereas the quality of the result is not, veering uncontrollably from praise-worthy to heretic.

Upon returning to the ground floor after my tour, the annoyed receptionist reluctantly allowed me to use the gallery’s hidden bathroom. Feeling the soft, triple-ply toilet paper in my hands, I thought, At least they’re doing something good with their money.