I have
difficulty with curators. Not, I hasten
to add, on an individual basis, but with the prevailing over-importance
(self-importance?) of ‘the curator’.
When I began to exhibit, and indeed to work, in public galleries there
were few curators. Instead there were
exhibition officers, and this designation covered the remit to perfection by
placing exhibition at the forefront.
Exhibition officers (and exhibition assistants) would be involved
closely with the exhibition in both a conceptual and a physical manner, even
going so far as to get their hands dirty, painting the walls or running out to
purchase materials.
Now it
seems as if everyone is a curator.
Artists are reduced to mere technicians, or to being an interesting presence
in the bar, and any idea of engagement with the public has dissipated. Curators hold seminars with other curators,
with little need to discuss anything outside of the closed loop of those who
read the orthodox texts. I suppose this
is a further example of the rise of the manager, which has seen the developed
world (pause for ironic reflection) now awash with people whose main function
is the sending of emails, the production of spreadsheets, the arranging of
meetings. A world whose inhabitants exist
between Office and, on the way home, Candy Crush Saga.
Yes,
curators are a necessary part of the art-world infrastructure, though when they
were exhibition officers they were not imbued with the current god-like status. Let us not forget that without artists there
would be nothing to curate, and without the audience there would be no reason
to curate. But now there seems to be
more curators and wannabe curators than anything else, and the complex
relationships of art-world, space, contextual factors, and public engagement is
overwhelmed. There are endless symposia,
while exhibitions become the illustration of curatorial texts.
I am, of
course, envious. Unable to match the
intellectual rigour of the young curator I am assigned the role of the has-been,
or maybe never-was, and must stand in the wings and watch the play you are
playing, while my heart gently weeps.
Such is the
fate of the producer of installations.
