The bi-annual Dutch/Flemish Prize for Young Art Criticism (Prijs voor de Jonge Kunstkritiek [https://jongekunstkritiek.net/]) for art critics under 35, was awarded in December 2022 in Amsterdam. AICA Netherlands actively supports the Prize by translating the text of one of the laureates, Lara Den Hartog Jager, into English, in order to give it a wider resonance.
To what extend can an artwork be defensive? And does the contemporary art museum have an agency on the world outside? These are the questions Dutch art critic Lara den Hartog Jager (Amsterdam, 1999) raises in the following essay, while looking at the work of Ahmet Ögüt and its uses at the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. With this text, she was awarded one of the prizes, a ‘Basisprijs’, of the Dutch Prize for Young Art Criticism (Prijs voor de Jonge Kunstkritiek). The prize ceremony took place in December 2022 in Leuven/Louvain, at the museum M Leuven.
This bi-annual award for art critics under 35 is an initiative of nine art institutions from the Netherlands and Belgium. AICA Netherlands actively supports the Prize by translating this essay into English, and having it published on the AICA International website. With this publication on an international stage, we expect the winning text will receive a wider audience.
The museum at the barricade
By Lara den Hartog Jager
Two weeks after the Russian army invaded Ukraine on February 24, 2022, a photo of a so-called “Anti-tank hedgehog”, an angled obstacle meant to stop tanks, appeared on Twitter. The iron “hedgehog” photographed on a street in Kiev, had another striking detail, there was a museum label on it. “Anti-tank hedgehog, 1941. Were used during the defense of the Kiev city” can be read in small white letters. Now here it was – moved from an exhibition space to the street. No longer safe within the walls of the museum, presented in a historical context, but suddenly outside in its original function again, as a barricade.
Ahmet Öğüt, Bakunin’s Barricade (2015). © Collection Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam / Photo: Peter Tijhuis.
Immediately I recalled a work by Ahmet Öğüt, Bakunin's Barricade (2015-2020), which I had seen a few years earlier in the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. In the middle of the museum’s high, white museum hall stood a large structure. There was a car on its side, with various panels of metal fencing strewn over, around and beside it. Tires, bricks, pilons, road signs, beams and lamps stuck out from between these, altogether forming a large barricade that almost closed off the room. You could just get to the other end of the hall by passing through a narrow opening on one side. But there was something more remarkable about the barricade: on the steel fencing hung various artworks from the museum collection. For example, there was a photograph by Nan Goldin, a painting by Marlene Dumas, a Malevich – whose red elements almost blended with those of a traffic mirror beside it – and a small statue of Käthe Kollwitz. The longer you looked, the more that works of art began to emerge from the apparent chaos. And that was not all. In addition to the installation, there was a contract stating that the museum had to agree to lend the work as a whole to be used as a barricade, should it be demanded in times of radical economic, social or political events. The museum would be required to sign this contract, should they purchase the work. The entire barricade, including all works of art, could then be placed on the street. Would the Stedelijk Museum really sign this contract, and risk seeing a number of masterpieces from their collection end up on the street? And could art really serve as a defense?
The barricade is a phenomenon with a long history, and the material and symbolic meanings of it together form an interesting paradox of defense and connection. A contradiction that plays a role not only in conflict and protest, but also in contemporary art – both in relation to works of art, such as those of Öğüt, but also in relation to the art world itself. In recent years, many museums have (re)positioned themselves in line with socio-political developments in society. The linear Western canon is questioned, existing collections are presented with new narratives, and exhibitions are put together from a feminist or decolonial perspective. But between the museum and the outside world, a palpable friction remains. Museums seem to struggle with their position in society and their responsibilities as institutions. This became clear in recent years, for example, in the ICOM debate. The International Council of Museums tried to redefine the term “museum” in 2019, but the new definition was considered too ideological by the French branch of the association, among others. After much deliberation, a new proposal was made, which was adopted this summer. Terms such as“democratizing,” “global well-being” and “social justice”, which were part of the 2019 definition, were mostly deleted, and a more circumspect document emerged with terms such as “paricipation of communities,”“reflection” and “knowledge sharing.” The definition implies a direct and active role in society, but can the museum of today actually play such a role? A work of art such as Öğüt’s, which manifests the outside world not only in theory, but also moves towards it in practice, seems to be the ultimate test. Can the wall between the white cube and the street be demolished or will it always keep them apart?
Anti-war demonstration at the Palace of Westminster, London (2001). © Laura Hadden.
Although the use of barricades initially seems somewhat outdated in an era of cyberwars and nuclear weapons, their use is still prominent today. Climate activists from groups such as Extinction Rebellion regularly create human barricades to block streets. Highways were barricaded during the recent farmer's protests in the Netherlands, and the barricade has also played an important role internationally in recent years, such as during the Occupy movement in 2011, and in various political protests, including Istanbul's Gezi Park protests in 2013. The first large-scale and successful barricades arose in Paris in 1588 on May 12, a day that also went down in history as “the day of the barricades.” The people of Paris initiated several great uprisings in the cityand attempted to arm themselves against the troops of Henry III.[1] The word barricade refers to the French “barrique,” a type of barrel. These barrels often formed the basis for barricades: they were readily available, easy to move when empty, and once in position could be weighted with stones or sand. In addition, everythingin the street that was not fastened down and easy to pick up was used.
In the book The Insurgent Barricade (2010), sociologist Mark Traugott investigates the various functions of the barricade. Because in addition to practical goals such as protection and obstruction, important social and symbolic motifs have also played a role. The barricade has also been used as a kind of platform, to mobilize new people, gauge the mood of bystanders, and dissuade opponents from attacking. As Traugott described, it was a place of coming together: “Barricades made possible this challenge to the government's legitimacy because they defined a social space in which insurgents, most of whom had never previously met, came together with a powerful sense of common purpose.”[2] The function of the barricade is therefore paradoxical: on the one hand it must protect and keep opponents at bay; on the other, it stands as an initiator of dialogue and connection.
Mark Wallinger, State Britain (2007). © Mark Wallinger / Foto: Tate, London.
This paradox of the barricade, and of movement between the museum and the street, is also visible in another work of art: State Britain (2007) by the British artist Mark Wallinger. In it, Wallinger recreated the Parliament Square-protest of peace activist Brian Haw down to the smallest detail and placed it in the prestigious Duveen Galleries of Tate Britain. Haw began his protest in response to the economic sanctions imposed on Iraq after 9/11 and the subsequent wars with Iraq and Afghanistan. In June 2001, Haw set up a tent in front of the British Parliament, in the heart of London. It grew into an almost 40-metre-long area full of banners, posters, flags and photographs, all with a strong anti-war and anti-government sentiment.
Haws’ camp – full of painted slogans like “Babykillers” and “B(LIAR)”, pictures of injured children, teddy bears and small white crosses – was a thorn in the side of many British politicians who passed Haw every day on their way to parliament. In 2006, a large part of his camp was removed after the introduction of a new law, banning protest within a one-kilometre radius of Parliament Square. But Wallinger had been intrigued by Haw, and just before the camp was removed by the police, he took hundreds of pictures. When he received a commission from Tate Britain, he decided to meticulously copy the protest – all the faded pictures, peace flags and foul teddy bears, even Haws' teacups were copied. He placed the forty-metre-long installation in the stately, neoclassical Duveen Galleries. Coincidentally, the museum itself also happened to stand half inside and half outside the radius that forbade protest. In one part of the museum protest was permitted, in the other, punishable. Wallinger demarked this bizarre situation with a line drawn through the museum; the limit of protest. But was Wallinger's work a protest, or a work of art? And can protest even survive in a museum? Wallinger's work was not a traditional barricade, but because of its location in the middle of the museum – to the left of the Duveen Galleries one can view the Tate collection of works dated to 1900; to the right, its modern works – it created a separation between the collections. Visitors could not avoid encountering Wallinger's work and the many terrible images. State Britain came as a shock to many of them who typically came for the British classics of Turner or Hockney. Tate also seemed to be facing a dilemma. Although the museum offered plenty of space for Wallinger's ideas, it seemed to stay as far as possible away from the idea that the work was a protest in itself. In both the press release and the exhibition texts, the focus was on the many details in the work and the reference to (art)history; the work was not a continuation of the protest but, according to the museum, was a standalone work of art. On the other hand, Wallinger himself seemed more focused on the political message. He stated in several interviews that he thought it was important that people would come into contact with Haws' protest. The museum, he said, was the only place where this was still possible.
Öğüt was inspired for his art barricade by Mikhail Bakunin, a Russian anarchist who in 1849, when Prussian troops invaded Dresden, suggested that paintings from the National Museum be hung on the barricades.[3] He argued that the soldiers would not dare to shoot at precious works of art. This proposal was not followed, and according to some – including E. H. Carr, the British historian who wrote a biography of Bakunin in 1937 – it is merely a legend. But Öğüt’s work makes this legend tangible, because the contract – which the Stedelijk actually signed when it purchased the work – instantly created the risk that works from the museum’scollection could one day end up on the street. Öğüt's barricade not only questions the social and political aspects of protest, but also highlights the friction between the museum and the outside world. Can art have an impact outside the museum? Can art protect a society, and if so, could it be sacrificed for the greater good?And to what extent should the museum be responsible for this? When I spoke to him, Öğüt emphasized that his work is never a symbolic gesture. He does not want to create abstract art concepts, but strive for a concrete result. To this end, he held talks with museum staff and eventually reached an agreement on the contract with director Rein Wolfs. The fact that the Stedelijk decided to sign the contract – albeit under several conditions – seems unique, and asks us to consider: is collaboration between the museum and the outside world still possible?
With their barricade, both Öğüt and Wallingerattempttotear downthebarrier between the museum and the outside world.Both created worksof art that do not surrender to a static existence on a pedestal, but demand an interaction between the museumgalleriesand the street.And for both artists, this interaction is notmerelysymbolic, but also meant toencourage the museum to step outside itsownwalls.That is not without risk.In signing a contract, the Stedelijk might jeopardize valuable works from the collection; Tate risked various possible consequences of Wallinger's protest.
Nevertheless, the struggle remains, because although both artists raise important points that nudge both visitors and the museum itself to consider systems of protest and the actions of art institutions, it remains to be seen whether this is sufficient to break through the wall between the museum and the broader world. Öğüt's barricade has not yet been deployed on the streets. And the degree to which Wallinger's work has effected change remains unclear. After all, Haw was back after he won his trial, again protesting by himself on the street. The impact of art does not always have to be measurable, as it creates meaning in other ways. But if art is intended to effect concrete change, why does it so often come up short? One of the reasons seems to be yet another paradox, one that is inherent in the museum itself. Although the museum is an essential platform for art, it can neutralize the message of the works at the same time – after all, art is only art. As art historian Boris Groys describes in his book Art Power (2008), the museum space both forms and destroys the work of art: “On the one hand, images in the museum are aestheticized and transformed into art; on the other, they are downgraded to illustrations of art history and thereby dispossessed of their art status.”[4] Although Öğüt and Wallinger are taking an important first step, it is up to museums to leverage this and provide a platform that supports this dynamic of change. But how can the museum overcome its own paradox and create this platform?
The solution may lie in embracing this contradictionand creatinga place where peoplenot onlycome together, but also collide.Could the concept of the barricade serve as a metaphor, could the museum itself become a barricade?Analogous to this, political scientist Chantal Mouffe advocates the idea of agonism in her bookThe Democratic Paradox(2000).Instead of striving for consensus, we should be more open to discussion and confrontation between different parties.Debate and protest in the public sphere are essential for this:“One of the keys to the thesis of agonistic pluralism is that, far from jeopardizing democracy, agonistic confrontation is in fact it’s very condition of existence. Modern democracy's specificity lies in the recognition and legitimation of conflict and the refusal to suppress it by imposing an authoritarian order.”[5] It goes without saying that museums seek to foster connection, but confrontation does not need to be avoided. Such confrontation could, on the contrary, ensure that the museum enters the outside world and that works such as those of Öğüt and Wallinger are no longer undermined by the neutralizing effect of the museum, but given the space necessary for ambiguity, collision and movement.
Can the wall between the white cube and the street be demolished? Could the museum itself become a barricade – a place to not only seek consensus, but stimulate agonism? It is precisely the paradox of the barricade that can empower art to reach beyond the traditional museum walls. Because the barricade protects art from the outside world on the one hand, but also has to be built up itself, and ultimately broken through. It protects and obstructs, but is also a platform for fostering connection and community. This contradiction should not be avoided, but embraced. Because it is precisely in the movement between the museum gallery and the street, and in the conflict between perspectives, people and ideas, that a place arises of confrontation and connection, attraction and rejection. A stage, a gathering place, an obstruction, a creation and above all, a great pile of rubble.
Translated by Susan Jenkins
[1] Eric Hazan, A History of the Barricade (London and New York: Verso, 2015), 4-5.
[2] Mark Traugott, The Insurgent Barricade (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 202.
[3] “Ahmet Öğüt Artist Page,” Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, 2 September 2020, https://www.stedelijk.nl/en/digdeeper/ahmet-ogut.
[4] Boris Groys, Art Power (Cambridge: MIT Press Ltd, 2008), 50.
[5] Chantal Mouffe, The Democratic Paradox (London and New York: Verso, 2000), 103.