I walked into Mark Manders’s solo show at the Modern Art gallery full of anticipation, but what I found jolted my curator instincts, like a child biting into what looks like chocolate cake, only to be betrayed by raisins.
I almost used a photo of the downstairs room as the lead image for this review, because that space, and how disappointingly it landed, is what sparked everything you’re reading now. But let’s be honest: Instagram isn’t built for crumpled, unprimed canvases on dim basement floors. The sculpture upstairs? I guess more Instagram-friendly in a sense “the f is that?”
I saw glimpses of the show on the gallery’s feed, those monumental sculptures. Or at least, I thought they were part of the show. I didn’t dig deeper. I let the images build the hype, but of course, I was suspicious, sure, the gallery is small, but hey, White Cube next door has that massive basement, so maybe Modern Art had some architectural surprise too? I’ve fallen into this trap before: a striking photo online lures you in, and you decide to go. I told a friend of mine, a critic, that I was super excited to see it, and he answered, “It’s VERY GOOD. You must go.” That sealed it. I was ready for one of those shows, the kind that brings you to your knees.
Spoiler: it wasn’t.
The first room greeted me with a lone sculpture: a bronze chair made to resemble leather, holding a dismembered, clay-like torso with a wooden stump jutting out where the legs should have been. It stood in the center of the space. Sparse curation can work well as it forces you to come closer and to pay attention. That sculpture felt like an introduction, modest compared to the massive works I’d seen online but inviting. I was eager to explore the basement. And that’s where everything broke.
The room downstairs was small and poorly lit. The floor piece, a large, flat canvas didn’t even fill the space. People had clearly stepped on it; it was crumpled and oddly soft. The artwork on the wall didn’t draw me in, either. I thought there might be something more beyond the glass door in the corner. Nope, just an office. I took two photos. That’s it. Not out of minimalism, but because there was barely anything worth capturing.
That’s when I thought, ‘Okay, now I need to read the press release.’ It turns out that the canvas on the floor was hiding three dead birds. The idea: we walk on death unknowingly. A compelling concept in theory. In practice? It didn’t work. The tension too subtle. The shock, the confrontation, missing. The work felt flat. Literally.
If I could rearrange the show, I’d swap the upstairs sculpture and the floor piece. Let the awkwardness of stepping on hidden birds be the entry point, the unexpected moment. Then, let the bronze work sit brooding in the basement, where it might’ve gained more mystery.
Downstairs, a wall-based piece titled Falling Dictionary showed exactly that: a dictionary mid-fall. It’s meant to bring together two rarely adjacent words and reflect on how we imagine language. How many people have seen “a frozen image [of a dictionary] that is all about movement and language?“, as stated in the press release. Sure, it’s a clever thought. But I couldn’t shake the question: so what? I understood the idea, but what did it lead to?
Upstairs, an artwork called Perspective Study, one of the painted collages, made from newspapers the artist has been producing for almost 20 years, filled with every word from the dictionary. Commitment, yes. But again, why? It reminded me of Roman Opałka, who wrote numbers until his death. In his case, it felt profound. Here, at Manders’s show, I wasn’t so sure. Of course, there’s a reason behind writing numbers and playing with the English dictionary, but the more you think about it, the more you realise it’s all about the artist’s madness.
The thing I wasn’t sold on either in the Perspective Study was the neon strip running through the center of the canvas. The press release didn’t mention the reason behind using that neon. Pop art references? Comment on our news consumption? If so, it felt underdeveloped.
…That awkward, disappointing floor piece. That was the trigger.
It made me want to write. Not because the work moved me, but because it missed. Because I left with more frustration than insight. Because the show made me realise how often a strong concept can be swallowed by weak execution, or worse, by a space that doesn’t serve it.
I like conceptual art. I like when it asks questions, even difficult ones. But I also want the work to meet me halfway. I want the why to matter, not just the what.
And that’s where this show lost me.
It asked for attention but didn’t earn it. It hinted at depth but stayed on the surface. It invited reflection, but all it left me with was a single, lingering question:
So what?