(Art) Tales From the Crypt
Where Canadian Art Goes to Die
By Irene Angelopoulos
Posted August 14th, 2007I feel like I've come back from the land of the dead. It's partially from having navigated my way back to the east end through today's thick, urban bog that blanketed downtown Toronto, but mostly it's because of my escape from the austere structures that house our city's biggest money-makers. You see, I set out on a naïve mission to go where we lowly artsy types would typically not be found dead, to see whether the infectious aesthetic of hip, cutting edge art so typical and so appreciated in Queen West galleries (and even adopted into mainstream advertising) has yet made its way into the crypts of commerce at King and Bay.
My simultaneous paranoia and secret hope that the most corporate of the corporations were now cultural movers and shakers grew as we pushed a random button and shot up through the elevator shaft of the CIBC Mellon building at g-force five to our first corporate destination, business investment firm, Corporate Planning Associates, located at the pinnacle of the gilt-covered tower at 320 Bay Street. But these delusions of Patrick Batemans walking around offices decorated with works by trendy artists from the latest Gladstone Hotel exhibition, rather than with original Robert Batemans, were quickly replaced by Corporate Planning Associates' promise to its clients: peace of mind (by which I mean the eternal peace of a mind that has ceased to function). Despite the air conditioning on the 17th floor, the reception and lobby felt stuffier than a humid day atop a subway grill. Ambitious wainscoting — not satisfied with owning only the bottom half of every wall — reached from floor to ceiling, as though the entire office had transformed into a giant, inverted coffin. This lacquered and polished wood acted as a perfect backdrop for the pleasant but forgettable landscapes of trees lining lakes, forest scenes and woodsy swamps hung at the standard eye-level with as much love as a C.E.O. puts into his signature (all those trees which were rendered in impressionist style in the landscapes were probably now part of the interiors of the office). We weren't allowed past the immediate reception lobby but could see that the coffin, decorated with variations on virtually the same landscape, extended down a hallway which housed private offices. What purpose is served by these poor mockeries of the Group of Seven, other than to remind the people working in that coffin that humanity does exist, out there... somewhere...
Our next random destination. The elevator at the Ernst & Young building (222 Bay Street) was g-force seven, and within five seconds we'd travelled from the ground floor to the 31st. As the elevator door slid silently open, an asceticism hit us that satisfied my most earnest assumptions about heartless corporations such as this dinosaur law firm. Without hesitation, the receptionist asked us to wait for a rep named Ed before we could even look at the artwork festooned not ten feet away from us in the lounge area. Afraid to lay our eyes upon the eight Gurney Cresswell colour prints hung neurotically straight in two horizontal rows of four, we asked whether we could take a look at one of the more impressive pieces: a monoprint by Montreal-born artist Michael Earle, and were granted this small amusement. The monoprint proper is a watery blue-green upon which Earle has sketched juvenile shapes like houses and miscellaneous flora, while abstract shapes and lines etched onto the print through a thick layer of paint create shallow texture. We like this piece for its scattered composition, abstract qualities and naïveté. Might that be respect for the corporation I feel creeping in?
After contacting the marketing department Ed refused to let us photograph the artwork (even the Gurney Cresswell colour prints with expired copyrights) so alas, dear reader, it is up to you to picture (or google*) the dulled colours of 19th century watercolours splashed onto paper, skilfully reproducing an icy scene from an Arctic exploration upon which Lieutenant Cresswell no doubt voyaged and wanted the rest of the world to see. After that formal phone call to marketing and a brief but stern legal lecture on art and copyrighting, I wondered whether Ernst & Young's cultural patronage followed the footsteps of Andrew Mellon, the benefactor of Washington's National Gallery and of the same Mellon Financial corporation that owns the CIBC building at 350 Bay Street, who chose to bequeath a gallery to the government rather than pay up tax debts.**
When I visited Earle's website and read the healthy list of corporate collections of his work (from American Express to Coca-Cola to Imperial Oil Ltd.) after browsing through his online gallery of works similar to that at Ernst & Young, the naïveté I had found so endearing revealed itself to be, in fact, very calculated in its non-threatening, watered-down form and subject and without a soul: in absolutely no way would it possibly offend a potential client. At the risk of being called out for intentionalism, isn't that the bottom line of corporate art?
Our third productive destination was the SunLife Financial building on King Street. Reception there was helpful, unsuspicious and casual when we enquired about the art decorating their offices. They gave us a tour of the boardroom and lobby, presenting us with various contemporary works of art including a cibachrome by Manitoban, Winston Leathers, acrylic landscapes by Saskatchewan artist Dorothy Knowles, etchings by Ed Porter, and an illustrious oil painting by local Ontario artist Roly Fenwick. We were informed that the building manager rents or leases these works of art from Canada Council-funded ArtBank, which promotes its vault of Can-con art to corporations looking to bring "energy, innovation, and prestige" to their offices and buildings. I thought this might be that fuzzy, nebulous thing I might find causing in me a positive revelation lacking in cynicism about corporations and the people who are squeezed through their soul-sucking grinder, but the lack of knowledge and enthusiasm toward the artwork by those working in the office, and the Grim Reaper's touch with which these pieces were hung, convinced me they were merely national relics acting as cheap shills for an oxymoronic corporate humanity and feigned sophistication (translation: to be the wolf's sheep costume).
Despite this more personable interaction that ended our tedious jaunt through Toronto's financial district, I felt sad, as though a dear friend had passed on but their body was left out, forgotten just beyond the grave. The skies threatened to hurl the liquid grey that their bellies were just barely containing. The grey pallor of the buildings were begging to be impossibly washed away as they moaned, you don't belong here... get out now! Beware all ye works of art who enter these cold walls, for not a soul of you shall leave. For better of for worse, this, beloved reader, is still where Canadian art comes to die.
*Sincere apologies for conjugating the newly authorized verb, ‘to google'.
**This is purely a question born out of personal fancy for coincidences and conspiracies. Absolutely nothing beyond my own imagination even suggests such a thing could be plausible.