Wien art fair allowed the CEE countries to ruffle their feathers. So as a gesture of cross-polination the museums came out to play at the Kunsthalle Wien, reveals the synthesis between Shintoism, globalisation, ecological and economic concerns, mythology, materialism and how that can be metamorphosed. The large ship wreck is enabling people to become aware of the transience of materialism. Using authentic materials, heightens our awareness of the mechanics of the construction of reality. Blending with barnacles that cling to the wreck, there is a sense of the strength of nature to live beyond any human construction. Passing into the third room, there is a real wit as a mythological creature writhes in a blue space chasing their tail. A human weakness polarised through fantasy. Below sketching are encased within sea enemies that are seemingly breathing like a fish's gills. Gerald Matt's curating manages to create a rich metonymy between all the facets of Barney's art. The density of his lifelike sculptures penetrate the extensive Kunsthalle space. The sketching, framed like tiny shells on the wall are positioned so that the spectator peers, with their eyes in such a way that one feels like looking out of a porthole window of a ship at the great Moby Dick being speared to it's death. The organic creatures writhe above you in a aquamarine blue, contradicting our perception of sea-creatures being down below, heightening our perception to a mythical beyond that knows no space or time. The smell of coral and sea greets you in the last room, we are met with a melanomas sculpture crafted with shrimps, rose quartz, coral and wax, morphs along the floor. In the corner stands a Japanese figure, grasping hold of the black rubber tube, severed and hanging in his grasp. He stands wild white and red hair wispy from him and staring back at you through a distorted Kabuki like mask, smudged and 'inauthentic'. The finale: a composed scene revealing a ship in all it's functional glory. The regimented figures perform their nautical ritual in uniformed complicity. The circle is complete. I'm reminded, one last time of the ultimate construction and deconstruction in every matter. At the exit hangs a panoply of books: sculpture anthologies, performance art essays, a novel of Merville's Moby Dick. "We're closed!" comes the abrupt int ejection as I was just getting into The Whale.
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