Saturday 2nd February 2025
How often do you find yourself distracted by the piece of glass between you and the art you’re supposed to be observing? Or distracted by the sound, light, or people pollution of an exhibition. Electric Dreams, whose 15 rooms explore art’s use of technology before the internet, features a juxtaposition between archival and experiential displays, which leads us to question, who exactly was Electric Dreams made for? This essay will examine how Electric Dreams’ curatorial choices shape audience engagement, exploring the tension between accessibility and exclusivity in archival and experiential displays through contextualising several works in the exhibition.
On the surface, Electric Dreams is attempting to offer an experience to all audiences. The experiential displays are interactive and touchable, attracting a wide range of audiences, while the more archival work is often displayed behind glass or in vitrines so as to say, ‘There is a barrier here; this isn’t for you’, apparently for more informed audiences. In Sculpture and the Vitrine (Welchman, J. 2017), Welchman notes that ‘the vitrine is, first and foremost, a marker of difference’ and compares the display method to shop windows with the effect of creating an air of unattainability in the art world. I felt that many of the vitrines in Electric Dreams, such as the one displaying Edward Ihnatowicz’s Sound Activated Mobile 1968, felt like an aid to control my observation of the object by situating the viewer at a distance from the work, looking in feels like an act of trespass as if stealing a glance through the shop window of a designer one couldn’t possibly afford or have the knowledge to enjoy properly.
However, I do not believe that the ability of the vitrine to render an artwork inaccessible is its only function. Elsewhere, the use of the vitrine felt purposeful, such as in Liliane Lijn’s The Bride 1988, where the figure ‘is a caged being, pulsating with repressed energy’. Lijn asserts that rather than trapping the figure or rendering her a display object, the vitrine offers ‘protection to the fragility of a moment of imbalance’ (Lijn, L. 2022), which reflects the ancient Greek Temenos, a sacred enclosure in front of a temple which offered protection to all who entered it. Observing the work, we see that the mesh of the vitrine on opposing sides interferes with itself, creating moire patterns that make the enclosure come to life. The mesh and the bride become one as it is impossible to focus on either one, highlighting Lijn’s interest in reconfiguring the female body beyond passive, decorative status, asserting its agency within the rigid frameworks imposed upon it.
Heinz Mack
Light Dynamo 1963
Furthermore, it is possible to argue that the vitrine’s reflective element adds another layer to the audience’s experience of an artwork. I often find myself using the vitrine as a mirror to my face alongside a sculpture. Suddenly, the artwork and I become one, and I am led to ask questions about where I stand as a spectator and what role I play in the audience- artwork- artist dynamic.
While observing Mack’s ‘Light Dynamo,’ I noted that his use of aluminium within a glass vitrine reflects and distorts the viewer, meaning that each spectator perceives the sculpture differently through a different set of reflections. This positions the spectator as a performer in the artwork, echoing Tag Gronberg’s analysis in Sculpture and the Vitrine (Welchman, J. 2017). Gronberg highlights how Damien Hirst’s use of vitrines transforms the reception of his works, adding a layer of performance to the sculpture, stating, ‘Visitors do not simply view the works with which they interact: they become part of the works themselves, at least temporarily- by being reflected.‘ Similarly, Mack’s light-based sculptures dissolve the boundary between observer and artwork, reframing the role of the spectator as an active component of the artwork, which supports the goals of the Zero Movement, which sought to redefine artistic engagement in response to destruction and renewal after WWII using light and movement as tools for a fresh start in art. The movement sought to transcend national and historical trauma, moving away from subjective postwar movements like Tachisme, inviting audiences into a new form of perception and encouraging audiences to view art as a sensory field rather than a static object.
Heinz Mack
Still from Telemack 1969
While Light Dynamo invites interaction through reflection, Mack’s Sahara Project removes the audience except via film to create an alternative, distant engagement, using the vastness of the desert as both medium and setting for his exploration of light and space. Mack saw the desert as an untouched expanse, a landscape free from human interference. In this way, he extended the ZERO movement’s search for pure aesthetic experience beyond gallery walls.
I became captivated by Mack’s engagement with the desert in The Sahara Project but, upon further examination, began to question my fascination with it and its implications. We may argue that Mack employs the Sahara Desert as his canvas to evade context, a blank canvas upon which to create something otherworldly and mysterious. Indeed, Mack states in an interview that the desert is a ‘landscape which is not spoiled and littered by the fingerprints of civilisation’ (Mack, H. 2014). I would argue that our current climate gives the work new meaning. Michael Marder comments on the mislabelling of the word ‘desert’ in his essay The Desert Is a State of Mind Cast over the Earth where ‘to desert’ means ‘to leave behind’. Forget animals and plants. ‘Unfit for the habitation of the very humans who’ve had a hand in their spread, deserts seem to be the areas of the world so vacant that they register as little more than black holes on the radars of our concerns.’ (Marder, M. 2017). Marder argues that deserts have become a symbol of humanity’s impact on the Earth rather than lack thereof. He proposes that the desert, both as a physical reality and a conceptual construct, symbolises the culmination of abstract thought imposed upon the Earth, resulting in a passive and alienated way of viewing the Earth and, therefore, the erosion of biological and ecological richness. Could we argue that Heinz Mack reinforces the notion of the desert as an abstract entity by framing it as an aesthetic playground? A place of light rather than life.
This tension between aesthetic purity and the realities of place is further heightened by how Telemack is presented in Electric Dreams. While Mack’s Sahara Project invites reflection on the desert as a space of light and perception, its framing as an artwork risks detaching it from its material and ecological reality. The curatorial choices in Electric Dreams extend this detachment—Telemack, projected high on a walkway without seating, the film remains largely unseen. Its potential impact is diminished by its presentation, hindering engagement and reinforcing its inaccessibility.
Carlos Cruz-Diez
Environnement Chromointerférent 1974
While I noted earlier that the interactive art of Electric Dreams may feel targeted towards a broader range of audiences than the enclosed works, I would argue that this is a facade. Phyllida Barlow critiques the trend of art that ‘happens’ to the viewer, arguing that authentic engagement requires active observation. I would say that the interactive works in Electric Dreams speak to this need to be entertained and undermine the aspect of art that, in the words of Barlow, ‘requires an active process of looking where the viewer has to work a bit, to walk around and take time to look at it from different points of view.’ (Barlow, P. 2021). While they may seem engaging, installations such as Carlos Cruz-Diez’s Environnement Chromointerférent risk turning participation into a passive, consumable experience similar to the dopamine-driven habits created by social media. In Artificial Hells 2012, Claire Bishop argues that participatory art often mirrors capitalist modes of production, where audience participation is superficial and performative rather than critically engaged. This connects to Bishop’s critique of how interactivity, under the guise of inclusivity, can function as a form of cultural neoliberalism. As Bishop states, ‘participation has become a political currency in ways that obscure the quality of the experience itself ‘(Bishop, C. 2012). If interactive art simply invites audiences to hit a balloon, as is the case in Environnement Chromointerférent or perform other minor gestures without deeper conceptual engagement, it may become an aestheticised version of consumer culture rather than a meaningful disruption of it.
Overall, Electric Dreams highlights the tension between accessibility and exclusivity, as well as interactivity and passive observation. The works where audience participation was successful were far more subtle, like Heinz Mack’s Light Dynamo, compared to works marketed as ‘interactive art’ which, if not executed with care, can transform art galleries into what Brad Troemel defines as ‘adult daycare centres’. Ultimately, Electric Dreams reminds us that the meaning of art is never fixed but continually shaped by historical, ecological and institutional contexts, reinforcing the importance of questioning artworks and their curation.