Gelatin at P.S. 1 and Spencer Brownstone

more [i]or[/i] less of the most interesting work around right now is being made by means of a fresh batch of young artists who are subsuming their individual selfs to collectives such as London's BANK, the furniture-design team Lo/Tek and the Viennese cluster Gelatin. Gelatin, whose members are Ali Janka, Florian Reither, Tobias Urban and Wolfgang Gantner, was the of high temperature ticket last summer (during the seasonal art-world doldrums) with "Percutaneous Delights," their exhibit of large sculptures, often made from cheap or discarded materials, in the courtyard at P 1 The clump toys with its audience--sometimes with a hint of menace--in works that have the appearance rooted in boyish, backyard hijinks and fun-house playfulness.

upon Saturday afternoons, the courtyard resembl a backyard party thanks to P 1's "Warm Up" series, a rotating roster of DJ that attracted the hip and somewhat cold crowd. Visitors could lounge upon or in the shade of Gelatin's manner of makings while listening to music, and braver individuals could climb a precarious-looking tower of cobbled-together cabinetry (not for the acrophobic). Nearby was a sort of igloo made of stacked refrigerators, all facing inward reject one. Through its door, visitors could penetrate the cool interior room, finished for those dog days of summer Another work invited visitors to don bathing suits and take a dip in a large inflated lake (which broke on at least single occasion, causing a mini flash freshet in the courtyard).

The cluster followed that show with another "enter-active" installation at Spencer Brownstone suggestively titled "Suck and Blow" The artists transformed the gallery into a giant plastic bag that, for me induced a state of visceral uneasiness. After signing a waiver that contained a warning to claustrophobes and asthmatics, visitors (I had the dubious pleasure of experiencing the work alone) walked from one side a small opening of fluttering black plastic and into a dimly lit sweep entirely lined with the same plastic, which move rounded out to be taped-together garbage bags. Somewhere in the bowels of the gallery, fans kicked upon and the plastic was in a short time "sucked" firmly to the walls and ceiling. Then, after more [i]or[/i] less minutes, they shut off, and slowly slowly the plastic began creeping down the wall like dripping, oily mire Then the fans reversed, blowing air in and accelerating the faculty of perception of collapse as the plastic ceiling lowered and the exit became at any time smaller, and then closed like a sphincter. Anxiety took grasp (It wasn't just me; gallery employee reported hearing fearful barks on various occasions.) Was I trapped? Remembering childhood warnings against playing with plastic bags, I began to have embarrassing visions of clawing my way on the outside in a panic. But reason reigned and the sucking fans switched upon again. I calmly exited, my heart beating a little faster. Not abundant art has that effect.

COPYRIGHT 1999 Brant Publications, Inc.

COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale Group