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Miroslaw Balka at the Turbine Hall, Tate Modern: Review

Written by Rebecca Winson
Thursday, 22 October 2009 00:00

The first thing that strikes me when entering the turbine hall is the sheer size of the thing: the huge, industrial container which is the latest installation in the Tate Modern’s famous Turbine Hall.  There’s simply no ignoring it. Terrifying and ridiculous at the same time, the box may as well be a huge magnet. You are drawn towards it. You may be slightly amused, bewildered or apprehensive but you are definitely not bored.

The piece is entitled “How It Is”, and it is the work of Polish artist Miroslaw Balka. According to the Tate press release, “Memorials play an important role in Balka’s personal experience.” His most recent work has focused on the Holocaust, which has particular significance in his hometown of Warsaw. After reading this, I walked towards the box in a sombre, reflective mood. This was a serious piece of art, I thought. Furthermore, it was a serious piece of art about the Holocaust. The Holocaust scarred humanity indefinitely. Distant relatives died in that horrific, indescribable happening. That box represented their gas chambers, their cattle trucks. I was to go in here and try and imagine the horror – if such a thing could be done.

I entered the box. Ahead of me I saw nothing. Blackness. A few white shoes shone in the near distance, but faded to ash as their owners stumbled onwards. Behind me was the grey, industrial wall of the Turbine Hall. Walking into the darkness was indescribable. It was like having your eyes closed for you. Like having a soft black cloth draped over your head. Dim figures appeared from time to time, ash grey and disorientated. I had no sense of body, or of time. 
And then I took my earplugs out.

The sound in the box immediately brought me out of my reverie. A plastic bag rustled, a coke bottle sloshed. A Home Counties voice said, sharply: “Gerald!!!” The waddling footsteps of a running five year old peppered an echo through the blackness. Two giggling teenagers goofed around next to my right ear. An unseeable hand pushed me gently in the face, and there is a brief, embarrassed apology. A burst of laughter came from near the entrance. An adamant mutter, presumably from Gerald, declared “I don’t get this.” A tube of Smarties rattled.

Despite my previous sobriety, I couldn’t help but smile. There was something incredibly communal about the feeling I got whilst being inside the box. We were all in this odd little experience together, all worried about bumping into something, all hearing the Smarties rattle and Gerald tut. Although no-one could be seen, they could be sense, and sensing them while deprived of seeing them made me more aware of the mass of individuals I was sharing the box – and, conversely, the earth – with.

I headed towards the almost blinding exit slightly puzzled. If this was Holocaust art then Balka had uniformly failed in his objective, surely. I was having a good time in that replica cattle train. I’d even laughed. And the rattling smarties were mine. Over a coffee later, I puzzled as to what conclusion I was going to draw in my article. And then I re-read the press release.

“Despite his austerity of form and the seriousness of his subject matter, Balka’s work is often imbued with warmth, reflecting his view that: “After seeing the sadness inscribed in the works maybe some spectators can see that joy can also be found in those moments of life that one lives to the full.” In that case, then, Balka’s art work completely and utterly triumphs. Whether or not it is a Holocaust piece is immaterial: the box unarguably symbolises death. It makes us face our fears of nothing, of blackness, of the worst we can imagine, and has us wander into them head first. And once in there, amongst the blackness, we realise: things aren’t so bad. Infact this blackness is almost relaxing. And look: there are other people in here too.