1993, Venice, the German Pavilion. Nam June Paik stands at one of the entrances to the pavilion with a stack of nineteen SONY boxes. Waving a walking stick, as if conducting musicians, he makes some sort of point to attendant figures. Park's left hand disappears beneath the sleeve of his shirt. A swatch hangs off the left-hand side of his braces; the righthand side executes a twist, and leads the eye to the glasses in his right-hand pocket. The spout of a petrol pump seems to rest on the front stack of boxes. Light shines on the gardens outside. What is happening?
Scene two. Paik has moved outside the German Pavilion to the gardens overlooking the lagoon . Distant trees dissolve in sunlight. Like some reincarnation of Courbet's self-portrait as travelling artist, Paik pauses, right arm enlaced within a chair resting upon his shoulder. Left hand still hidden within his shirtsleeve, its cuff gripped within his fingers . The artist watches as his assistants unpack geraniums and place them within the empty front bonnet of a car. The car's shell becomes a flowerpot. The geraniums become a source of energy. Six video monitors and three television shells containing neon sculptures rise above the car's shell, like acrobats on a circus pony. A distant video-robot swings its arms. Electric wires trail across the garden's paths. Paik's right hand now seems to have disappeared into the sleeve of his shirt. His shoes are scarcely visible. He is watching the assembly of one of his outdoor installations. Paik's installations inside and outside the German Pavilion at the 45th Venice Biennale typify the extent to which this exhibition voluntarily transgressed curatorial boundaries. Far... The rest of this article is available to subscribers of Eyeline