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It seems natural that an exhibition titled Icônes should be held in Venice. The links between the Republic and Byzantium are well known, and the Baroque scenography of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, right next to Punta della Dogana, seems to have been conceived entirely to exalt a very ancient icon, tiny in relation to the scale of the building, but venerated as miraculous. During the Renaissance, the entire Western world opted for realistic depiction over the stylization of the icon, to which the East and Orthodox Russia remained faithful, and Venice seems to have piously preserved the latter.

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If the Byzantine painters whose icons scandalized the iconoclasts had no intention of offending anyone, Cattelan, for his part, was perfectly aware that La Nona Ora was going to trigger controversy.

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But what exactly do we see in Cattelan’s work, beyond or in spite of his mimetic realism? The Pope’s face, curiously, is not distorted by pain, as one might expect, when it should be unbearable. His expression is serious, it seems almost contemplative, perhaps surprised by a statistically improbable accident; and his body, instead of being reduced to rubble by the impact of a stone of this size, hurled at full speed through space, remains intact. John Paul II, firmly clinging to his cross, seems to be making an effort to get up. It is difficult not to think here of the scenes of martyrdom, so often represented in Italian churches, in which the tortured victims, indifferent to their suffering, emerge unharmed from the flames or the boiling oil and defy the repeated efforts of their executioners. 

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Even if the glare of the controversy has died down, La Nona Ora remains, in 2023 as much as in 1999, what the artist intended: a work that disturbs, even shocks at first sight, but which, according to his own expression and with reference to the Passion of Christ, constitutes “a spiritual work that speaks of suffering.”

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The challenge facing any thematic exhibition is to make the reasons behind the choice of works and artists intelligible, sensitive. 'Icônes' does not escape this challenge, and offers a wide range of experiences, from the contemplation of the absolute simplicity of Robert Ryman’s final works, brought together with Roman Opałka’s in a kind of sanctuary, to the visual and sound shock of Arthur Jafa’s video, which includes frames that are largely silent.

And what does Danh Vo invite us to do when he shows us the Star Spangled Banner? We are far from the image of the idolized superpower that all other countries seek to imitate, even when they profess hatred towards it: the torn flag hangs miserably like a rag, evoking the United States’ defeat in Vietnam and the odyssey of the artist’s family among hundreds of thousands of boat people. A symbol of the vanity of human greatness, a depiction of the Virgin and Child can be glimpsed through the tear in the cloth. Like the other artists presented, Vo invites us to look beyond, to recognize the icon in its many varieties. It is up to us to make the effort required to avoid being among those “who have eyes and do not see.”

Bruno Racine
Extraits du catalogue of the exhibition 'Icônes'