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The experience begins with a telephone call. Eventually, the artist answers with a greeting of “Hello! This is Yoko” and hangs up. It’s an old-fashioned call, from a time before answering machines existed. The recording of this call is the final track on Yoko Ono’s 1971 album Fly, and it serves as the first sound heard upon entering her Tate exhibition Music of the Mind. Music? Sometimes it can be mundane, other times it is silent, and at times it can even be mind-bending. It all depends on one’s imagination. However, before we are immersed in Ono’s repeated roars, screams, and wails, we are greeted with the sounds of a flushing toilet and intermittent recordings of Ono coughing for 30 minutes and 18 seconds. The phone rings again, but this time the artist answers in Japanese. As we continue through the entrance, I am intrigued by a small statement written in the artist’s handwriting and displayed on the wall. It informs me that the room moves at the same pace as the clouds. This is good to know, but does it not also depend on the direction of the wind and the Earth’s rotation and orbit around the sun? Is this some kind of test?
We cannot linger here all day being anxious as there is a line forming and many activities to be carried out in the rooms ahead: walking on paintings, defacing walls, writing personal messages, and climbing ladders. Not to mention that, according to the artist’s directions, I must locate a broken sewing machine and a large glass tank to place it in, then transport the tank to a town square and persuade people to throw rocks at it on a snowy evening. Please do not inquire why.
I appreciate the boldness of Ono’s Instructions for Paintings [1961-2], particularly her choice to keep them in the realm between concept and action, meant to disrupt the mundane flow of everyday life in the reader’s mind. These instructions could be as unrealistic and exaggerated as she desired. In many ways, I favor these over her interactive pieces, which I used to gladly participate in. However, I must admit my days of crawling around in a bag are now behind me.
An interactive installation allows you to greet a stranger by reaching your hand through a precise opening in a large, unadorned, independently placed canvas. In a work titled “My Mommy Is Beautiful,” you are welcome to inscribe a message about your mother or attach a picture of her onto one of the 15 empty canvases arranged in a line on a wall in the last exhibit space.
At the age of 90, Ono is still actively involved in her work, although she is not creating as much art as before. While many of Ono’s pieces were initially conceived as ideas and notes during the 1950s and 60s, I am certain that her retrospective will be well-received, not just by students of fluxus, early performance, and conceptual art, but also by those looking for an interactive experience. Rather than being mere spectators, audiences now desire to be more involved and have a sense of agency. Ono had recognized and supported this from the beginning.
While a large portion of Ono’s display features collections of past photographs, flyers, invitations, tickets, programs, announcements, posters, magazine spreads, and other temporary items, there are also many other captivating elements for the viewer. One such example is Ono posing on top of a grand piano while John Cage and David Tudor tinker with the strings. Another is Ono in downtown Manhattan with composer, musician, and performance artist La Monte Young, who together started the Chambers Street loft concerts in 1961. Notably, Cage, Marcel Duchamp, and even Max Ernst were in attendance.
Before becoming famous, Ono was known for being a neo-dadaist. She, along with Cage, influenced the fluxus movement, which was started by George Maciunas and could be considered an anti-movement. Maciunas took the concept of the Chambers Street loft and established his own gallery. Fluxus aimed to free art from its own limitations, and Ono’s interpretation of it was both lighthearted and poetic. Her exhibitions were interactive and theatrical, with Ono providing instructions or objects and situations for the audience to respond to through improvisation.
In addition to early footage of Yoko Ono smiling and blinking, and performing Cut Piece, we see her in bed with John Lennon, surrounded by male journalists and photographers. She engages in spontaneous conversations with the unfriendly and confused reporters. Personally, I prefer Fly, a film from 1970-71 that Ono and Lennon created together. In the film, a woman lies on a bed while flies crawl over her exposed body. As more flies join in, Ono showcases an impressive range of vocalizations accompanied by minimal instrumentation from Lennon. It is a haunting piece.
Ono’s vocal style has been compared to that of Meredith Monk and Diamanda Galás, and her vocalizations in the film Fly reminded me of listening to a Sámi performer mimicking the irritating sound of a mosquito and the howls of a wolf. Ono often pushes her voice to its limits, which is not often seen in her artwork. Cut Piece, originally performed in Tokyo in 1964, featured Ono sitting on a stage with a large pair of scissors, inviting audience members to cut off pieces of her clothing. This performance predates Marina Abramović’s Rhythm O by ten years. While Abramović faced the risk of serious harm, including rape and murder, Ono’s Cut Piece was more modest in comparison. However, it is difficult not to view it as a foreshadowing of the criticism and threats she received after the Beatles broke up.
Ono’s messages of love, peace, and togetherness, along with her subtle critiques of anti-art, have often been seen as mildly provocative, despite the controversy they have sparked. However, upon revisiting her 1966-7 film Bottoms, it is difficult to understand why it caused such a stir. There is no nudity or vulgar behavior, and the display of bare buttocks appears innocent and pure, despite the outrage it incited on programs like Radio 4’s Today and in the tabloids. The film was quickly banned by British film censors, leaving me to ponder which of the bottoms belonged to famous artists.
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Ono’s later pieces may be considered lacking, disregarding the symbolism or its use as a means for audience involvement or its insistence on the idea of peace. In her 2001 piece titled “Helmets (Pieces of Sky)”, several German helmets from World War II are inverted and suspended from the ceiling, resembling planters. Instead of flowers, they contain blue jigsaw puzzle pieces that, when put together, would form a sky. This is a nod to the famous song “Imagine” that Ono co-wrote with John Lennon in 1971, for which she was only officially recognized as a writer in 2017.
At the end, a white vessel resides in a chamber with entirely white walls and flooring. “Add Colour (Refugee Boat),” which was first conceived in 2016 but originated from an idea in 1960, encourages viewers to utilize the provided brushes and blue paint to add their own messages and symbols throughout the space. Photographs of the installation in Portugal in 2020 capture the boat floating amidst a sea of messages, names, and aspirations for freedom. I anticipate a similar outcome for this immaculate boat in its blank canvas at Tate Modern. Ono is the unseen captain. Some may consider it cliché and predictable, but it still resonated with me.
Source: theguardian.com
