ROPPONGI HILLS MOMA SHOWSuspended high below a cobalt blue sky, a modest Picasso and premature Pollock greet Golden Week guests inside an empty birdseye acquarium. Outside, shiny canyons twist and curl, gorges sided by glass cliffs towering over dry holes, oases where GIs once watered following the rising suns nuclear meltdown. Far below visitors stream between see through clam shells, whirling walls officially tethered following a childs bonecrushing dash into a horseless merrygoround. Warhols multicolored Marilyns smile forever inside iron frames, images of images permanently etched through graphic eternity. Collaged movie posters, torn from Paris hoarding, honor 60s cigarette heroes, la nouvelle vague juxtaposed beside Oldenbergs deadpan desserts and de Koonings garrish green woman. Identical stacked vacuum cleaners rest unused dustfree inside unsmudged plates, but nobody will fill theirs at the black and white dinner table. Art is powerful. Only today architecture and city exceed painting, top installation. Basement Picasso and muddy Pollock cant begin against the panoramic urban mandala, waves of symmetry spreading endless around an infinite Pacific horizon. Today, both iconic surface and stonewashed irony lack the evocative echo of pitched technology, painter surpassed by this glass and steel concert, sprit flowing through form attaining higher emotional ground.
Tokyo Thurs 04/29/04