SPACE: Sonny’s Café At the School of the Art Institute, Chicago SHOW: Performance art by Rirkrit Tiravanija DATES: February 21, 2008 REVIEWER: Caroline Picard It takes some commitment to get beyond the absence of a literal art object. To question whether or not the relationship between the object and artistic expression is necessary. Perhaps that question is the basis of conceptual art, in which the Object is slowly deconstructed – taken apart as one might an onion – until we discover, as with Rirkrit Tiravanija, that it is the activity of art, not the object itself, that titillates us. 1 p.m. Friday February 1st, 2008: Sonny’s Café, the cafeteria and stomping grounds for the School of The Art Institute was closed for lunchtime. A long lunchtime. A certain guest list had circulated beforehand. RSVP’s were essential. Twenty students, ten from the Art Institute and ten from the University of Chicago’s art program, had been hand-picked to assist Tiravanija in meal planning and decoration. Sonny was given recipes for green curry, red curry, pad thai (with and without shrimp), as well as a Thai shrimp basil dish. Complimentary green tea to polish it off. People lined up in queues to serve themselves, ladling the different tastes into small disposable bowls of white rice before sitting or standing in crowded corners. There were not enough chairs, and the chairs that there were set up cafeteria-style, around folding tables garnished with a few bouquets. Color films wrapped around the lights, and a sad-looking banner of different colored paper draped from the ceiling. Presumably, these touches were the work of the selected twenty. The food was spicy. It was good. It wasn’t mind blowing, but it didn’t have to be. The purpose of this meal was not for it to be gourmet. Rather, it was to be a watering a hole. A place for people to gather. Perhaps even an invitation to reconnect with contemporary art practice. To be the object not the subject. It’s a brilliant plan, a way of welcoming the audience back into the bosom of art. To give sustenance, camaraderie. A sense of community. Yet the meal functioned as any other opening – the majority of the audience arrives to be the audience, to participate in the activity of an audience. In other cases, the work on the wall affords a pretext – something that (assuming the show is good) the art-lover returns to examine at a later date, when one need not beg off conversation to look closely. While the object was missing at Sonny’s, that same social structure remained in tact. The room was, of course, abuzz. There was a sense that everyone present was part of some special benefit. There was the thrill of brushing up against an approximate celebrity, the object of which was neither physical art nor the esteemed artist (although his presence set a mood as he sat facing the door with an entourage; long, straight, black hair; and round, rose-colored glasses). The room seemed ecstatic over the activity of consuming something Great. Being a part of history. There was a table set up in the back corner, where interviews were being conducted; part-icipants in the meal were questioned about their Experience. All that was missing was the occasional flash from a camera and a red carpet. This was not an intimate meal. Coupled with the reputation of its artist (he sat nonchalant, seeming unmoved, probably a nice guy), Art’s welcoming come hither embrace twisted into an ironic mirror. Cracked like a whip on the back of High Art Culture. It was difficult to maintain the customary ease which other meals, even dinner parties, might afford. The food was a preoccupation, a reason to stay. An activity to mediate discussion. My attention span was that of a fly, and my conversation equivalent. I was distracted by my bearings, looking around, meeting other stray gazes, seeing friends, awkward hellos, chitchat, a vague and pervasive discomfort that was nevertheless exciting. Meanwhile, the cafeteria was closed to the students who might need it. Above all else, I was distracted by my sense of hierarchy. What was titillating was to be part of The Invited. The Trick: Tiravanija pulls the art away as a magician might a rug, leaves the audience standing, gives them something to eat – and perhaps in a kind of transubstantiation, leads the people to believe that in eating they ingest, create, the art. What we find is a preoccupation with society. Esteem. A sense of privilege. It is possible that his work reflects differently in different contexts. He has published a book, for instance, with sixteen recipes that might be suitable for a World Cup halftime. Recipes you’d cook in your own house with your friends. Perhaps there, the intentionality of Art can infuse an everyday, basic part of life: the football game, with a special transcendence. At Sonny’s, however, the aura of special import did not come from the food itself, but the proximity and participation of success. A recognition of the art world, its political character, the glad hands, the lust and jazz of accomplishment and acclaim. Ultimately it reflects a western, capitalistic market, proving yet again that the art world is not so different from a greater, fetishizing, consumerist society. Tiravanija’s practice would function differently according to context, as food will, enhancing the nature of a group’s particular communion. I appreciated the mirror the meal provided. It. Like being the emperor and realizing you were actually naked.