Tassie Turrell
Right now, I am literally sitting under James Turrell's Amarna at the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA). My fuzzy NZ possum gloves snuggly keeping my fingers warm as I fumble with my keyboard and hunker down as low as I can go to find some sort of wind block from the storm violently blowing through the work. Fresh snowcapped Mt. Wellington peeps out for a moment's view just to drive home the point it is "cold as." I suppose this makes me a diehard for art's sake, or perhaps just an idiot who is too deep for her own good. Regardless, here I am, braving the elements to experience Turrell for a second time in Hobart, Tasmania. Why? At MONA, Amarna is accessible to the public every day outside the museum. Free. This is mind blowing and overly exciting to me as someone introduced to Turrell's work in Los Angeles as a privileged experience available in private homes or at the Los Angeles Contemporary Museum of Art (LACMA). Certainly not an everyday occurrence and never so exposed to weather's temperamental personality, as I am right now. The memories of a fully sheltered view to illuminate the warm desert and sunny skies of Southern California are a daydream compared to the thunderous rain flying through this minimal shelter from all directions. As raindrops spark up like fireworks on the floor's outer light square, I share a solitary giggle with myself. Perhaps my Tassie companion was right yesterday when making the practical observation, "Not too good when it rains, Lovey." A hilarious counter comment to my artsy enthusiasm about this piece highlighting the southern hemisphere sky. I am definitely in Australia. But not without a couple other brave souls who have joined me now in the rain. No wait, they are leaving. The malfunctioning warmers in the marble seats are the deterrent. So yes, it is just me. An opportunity to drift into that meditative state one can encounter in Turrell's playfulness of perspective and color manipulation. A place where common references are removed and absolute immersion reveals our physical state of continual change and the patience it requires to observe this manifestation in his frame of the immense. It is at this point where free flowing thought seems the best way to share the rest of my experience. Here is what I see:
A continuum, an example of fluid change. River bird calls and black swans may pull me from my reverie (or perhaps it is the glaring stadium lights across the river -- who thought that was a good idea??), but the morphing light shifts the sky square to increase its depth, extending closer to touch you and pulling away to draw you nearer to the sky. Crisp air flicks across the face with a scent of fresh waters and smoking chimneys as blood red borders cause the sky to illuminate an ominous green. The complimentary color relationship does not transport me to Christmas carols of nostalgia, only far darker places reflecting humanity's shameful deeds and horrific blunders across the land. Thankfully, this agony quickly cools to blues of calmer royalty, then violets of distinction. Each moment connected to the other. Each an influence on the last. It is emotional if you are willing to let it be, it is personal if you can handle such an intimate exposure revealing more complexity than Roy G. Biv and far more simplicity than the rustled chaos of society. It is never the same experience and yet it is as if L.A. suddenly reveals itself in another world, an instant where you might just feel the expanse of the desert, the western freedom of exploration, the sky painted with the familiar and yet separated to form one unique perspective. Car headlights from MONA employees heading home flash against the scene and interrupt my time travel to focus on the present environment. Lights fade further still and the sky square disappears altogether, conjoining with the ceiling, the framed sky now barely visible. Bright pinks turn to matte grays as lightning cracks its own show in the distance. Some curious soul walks up to the floor lights and kicks her foot over it, a test to spread her own shadow above. An action to influence, but nothing is swayed. Light continues without shadow through her tested barriers. A moment to highlight the fact we cannot break or block light in its purest form. Perhaps bend or contort, but never the power to stop it. It flows in constant movement as we flow in constant change with only the ability to redirect its course and observe how it exposes what we see around us. And that is the beauty of Turrell, a comparative and yet all-encompassing moment for reflection. The color shifts are now over and the sky is only a dark night with soft orange hues against the stormy clouds with small windows of stars. Everything is normal and mundane again, easily overlooked. It's time to pack up and seek out warmer shelter from the "four seasons in one day" weather of Tasmania. I'm leaving a little wetter, a little colder, but with a deep thought to carry always. Thank you Turrell, the moment did not go unnoticed.
