Since its inception in 2011, David Walsh’s Museum of Old and New Art has acted as a trailblazer and agent provocateur in the field. MONA’s jumbled hangs, themselves modelled on the shows Axel Vervoordt put together for the Palazzo Fortuny during successive Venice Biennales, have changed the way local insitutions display their collections. One could see this influence in Nick Mitzevich’s rearrangements of the collections of the Art Gallery of SA and the National Gallery of Australia, and the mishmash that we find in Sydney Modern – or is it Naala Badu?
A large dose of irreverence has always been part of the mix at MoNA, from the “artwank” raves on the device every visitor carries, to Walsh’s own devil-may-care pronouncements. There has been a positive delight in upsetting conventions and expectations. That was, until the Santiago Sierra controversy in 2021, where a call for Indigenous blood donations set off a local outrage. For once, MoNA didn’t laugh away the problem – it went on the defensive, pulled the project and promised to do better. In that moment Walsh and co. cleared the way for the local First Nations crowd to make further demands and expect to take a role in the museum’s decision-making processes. As far as I can see, these issues are still being worked through.
Last week’s admission that the “Picassos” in MoNA’s Ladies Lounge, were actually painted by Kirsha Kaechele, AKA. Mrs.Walsh, was the second big blow to the museum’s cavalier image. To recap briefly, the Ladies Lounge, a women-only space within the museum, was set up by Kirsha as a humorous riposte to patriarchy. It was presented as a luxury hideaway, where women might gaze at important art and be served cocktails by waiters. Naturally I haven’t been inside, and can’t comment on whether this claim matches the reality.
It all started to unravel when one visitor, Jason Lau, objected to not being able to access this space on the grounds of his gender, having paid his $35 entrance fee to see the entire museum. He felt strongly enough to take the matter to court and won the case. Once again, MoNA didn’t laugh it off, but are appealng the judgement. In the meantime, the “Picassos” were moved to the ladies’ toilets.
Then, last week, came the admission that the ‘Picassos’ were faked up by Kirsha with a little help from a friend. It followed inquiries by Kelly Burke at the Guardian, which were initially ignored. In her subsequent statement, Let Me Explain, Mrs. MoNA argued that her deception was really “a feminist statement” on women’s exclusion from public spaces. The idea seems to be that we should view the entire affair as a work of performance art, delighting in the way Kirsha deceived writers from the BBC and the New York Times.
When the Guardian contacted me last week for a comment (my own newspaper, the Sydney Morning Herald never bothered to ask), I couldn’t help feeling there was something unpleasantly childish and smartarse about the entire episode. Most of the other interviewees seemed to feel the same way. Does it mean we’re a bunch of sour pusses who can’t take a joke?
Although frivolity and irreverence are MoNA’s trademarks, to knowingly forge paintings by Picasso and pass them off as the real thing, sets a dangerous precedent. While MoNA never tried to sell these works, and probably remains immune from any legal recourse, the Picasso Foundation in Paris has already let its displeasure be known. If every museum suddenly decided to commission and exhibit their “own” Picassos, pretending they were the real thing, it would make a mockery of everything such institutions represent. Rather than being repositaries of rare and valuable items, museums would become junk shops, filled with fakes and knock-offs. There woud be no special incentive to visit these places when that indefinable aura of authenticity is taken out of play.
Some, of a more anarchistic persuasion, will say: “Right on!”, but it would be a disastrous affirmation of a growing belief that museums are stuffy, pompous institutions that need to be taken down a few pegs. Look at the idiots throwing food at famous paintings, thinking they’re going to save the planet by victimising works of art. Look at the ongoing transformation of the Powerhouse Museum into Carriageworks 2, or the AGNSW’s efforts to remake itself as a party venue.
Museums are repositaries of our history and culture, and when we begin to sneer at these things, we open the door to a brainless, perpetual now, in which all works of art are just images, assembled any old how, judged by the almighty criteria of “I like it/I don’t like it”.
MoNA’s irreverence provides a platform for the ideologues who deny the dignity and importance of museums, preferring to characterise them as anachronisms that need to be torched and remodelled. Who cares if it’s real Picasso or not? MoNA may find that a very large percentage of their audience cares deeply whether they’ve been deceived on this score. The phoney Picasso saga is not just a harmless prank, it’s a betrayal of trust. David Walsh may not be concerned if his museum has undermined its own credibility or alienated visitors, but I suspect most paying customers dislike the idea that they were unwitting victims of a hoax. It’s a pretty poor joke you’ve made if you’re the only one laughing.
The art column this week looks at Alphonse Mucha: Spirit of Art Nouveau, the AGNSW’s attempt at a winter blockbuster. It’s a very peculiar show for Sydney in 2024, as there’s no special reason for us to be celebrating Mucha or Art Nouveau. It is yet another example of the AGNSW grabbing a convenient package exhibition in which all the hard work is done by an overseas source, in this case, the Mucha Foundation of Prague, which has unrivalled holdings of the artist’s work, and is dedicated to the preservation of his memory and reputation.
The result is a flamboyant if repetitive installation that emphasises Mucha’s genius and downplays his contradictions – as may be expected from a show put together by a Foundation. It’s impressive, but in the way a brilliant piece of gymnastics is impressive. We’re amazed by the skill it takes to do something we could never dream of doing, but it’s a momentary thrill that soon fades.
The movie being reviewed is Jeff Nichols’s The Bikeriders, based on a photography book of the 1960s, which set out to celebrate the world of a biker gang. It’s an unclassifiable hybrid of a film that does its best to show the appeal and the evils of the bikers’ lives, although the evils eventually win the day. There is, however, a touch of bitter romance about the story, which is more than I can say for the ‘Picassos’ at MoNA.