ICA Boston

After my debate with Ben on the direction of modern food, music, and art, I was positively riled up to go to the new Institute of Contemporary Art on the reviving Boston harbor. The way there was a bit nerve-wracking, as it involved both buses and walking, some of my least favorite modes of transportation. My efforts were not really rewarded. First of all, the architecture was a disappointment. There was no reasonable pedestrian approach to the building, to the point that I was convinced that I must have found the wrong structure. Picking my way through the heat of a crumbling parking lot, I took my best guess about which side of the building I should approach, as the ass end it presented to approaching visitors gave no clue as to where the entrance might be.

Rather than being drawn into the exhibits upon entry, one had to take the stairs or elevator to the top floor. The huge industrial elevator was a nice reminder of the building's former purpose, but it carried only a small handful of people each time and seemed like a tremendous energy waste. For the stair walker, there were no clear indications to prevent one from getting lost on intermediary floors, as both me and a couple behind me did. The claustrophobic bathroom, glowing in Dan Flavin-ish lights, was also impossible to find, and so cramped that I could barely fit my small person into a stall. All this in a small museum for a big $10 entrance fee.

The one redeeming space was the glazed Founders Gallery with its sweeping gridded panorama of the bay and its ambient soundscape by Teri Rueb, produced by many speakers sounding their own localized parts and luring you from one to another. The hallway framed its visitors magnificently in grey and white. The lack of bass frequencies from the tweeters detracted from the convincingness of each sonic microcosm, but perhaps evoking low-tech science exhibits of yore was part of the intended effect?

One of the most striking works in the museum was Rineke Dijkstra's twin images of Eygenya, a young female Isreali inducted into the army. Startlingly, the first photograph, taken on the day of her induction, conveyed less personality than the photograph taken eight months later of her in drab. The image haunted me for some time, as did the thought of whether this beautiful young woman had joined voluntarily or not and whether she was in mortal danger or perhaps even dead.