Lights Going On and Off

Why are installations so bloody irritating, then? Perhaps because in the many cases when craftsmanship is removed, art seems like the emperor's new clothes. Perhaps also because artists are frequently so bound up with the intellectual ramifications of the history of art and the cataclysm of isms, that those who are not steeped in them don't care or understand. But, ultimately, because being irritating need not be a bad thing for a work of art since at least it compels engagement from the viewer.

But irritation isn't the whole story. I don't necessarily understand or like all installation art, but I was moved by Double Bind, Juan Munoz's huge work at Tate Modern. A false mezzanine floor in the turbine hall is full of holes, some real, some trompe l'oeil and a pair of lifts chillingly lit and going up and down, heading nowhere. To get the full impact, and to go beyond mere illusionism, you need to go downstairs and look up through the holes. There are grey men living in rooms between the floorboards, installations within this installation. It's creepy and beautiful and strange, but you need to make an effort to get something out of it.

The same is true for Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, though I didn't find it very illuminating. "My work," says Martin Creed, "is about 50% what I make of it and 50% what people make of it. Meanings are made in people's heads - I can't control them."

It's nice of Creed to share the burden of significance. But sadly for him, few of the spectators were making much of his show last week. His room was often deserted, but the rooms housing Isaac Julien's boring films and Richard Billingham's dull videos were packed. Maybe Creed's aim is to drive people away from installation art, or maybe he is just not understood. Whatever. The lights were on, and sometimes off, but nobody was home.