The Art That Divided Us
Part 4 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation
So far in this investigation, I've followed the money.
I've looked at the people behind the Vancouver Biennale.
I've started looking at the approval process.
Now I want to look at something much more subjective — the art itself.
Because this is where people can get very defensive.
Someone says, “That's incredible!”
Someone else says, “That's ugly.”
One person sees humour.
Another sees something frightening.
One person sees an important social statement.
Another asks, “Why am I looking at this on my bike ride?”
And that's precisely why I think we need to have this conversation.
I don't hate public art.
Actually, quite the opposite.
There is Biennale art that I absolutely love.
Giants
The enormous Giants by Brazilian artists OSGEMEOS transformed six concrete silos on Granville Island into a gigantic, colourful public artwork.
The Biennale says the six silos cover approximately 23,500 square feet and that the artists deliberately chose the industrial site because they wanted to create a relationship between their work, the architecture, the water and the people who use the area.
And I understand that.
I see it.
It makes me happy.
It takes something industrial and grey and turns it into something imaginative.
It doesn't require me to understand a 40-page curatorial essay before I can appreciate it.
I can simply ride past and smile.
And apparently I'm not alone.
The Biennale has used Giants in educational programming with Vancouver students, describing how the colourful installation transformed the otherwise drab concrete silos and inspired children to think about colour, identity, imagination and place.
That is public art doing something wonderful.
Then there is A-maze-ing Laughter.
Twenty enormous laughing figures.
The Biennale describes the work as a celebration of laughter and says it was intended to touch people's hearts and bring enjoyment.
But I'll be honest:
I find those figures creepy.
Those enormous mouths.
Those exaggerated expressions.
Those bodies frozen in hysterical laughter.
They don't make me feel joy.
They make me uncomfortable.
And that's okay.
The artist doesn't have to design art specifically for me.
But it does raise an important question:
What happens when the emotional experience of the public is completely different from the artist's intention?
Is that success?
Is it failure?
Or is that simply what art does?
I don't think there is a simple answer.
Then came The Proud Youth.
This one affected me much more strongly.
The Biennale describes Chen Wenling's huge red bronze figure as a celebration of the inner child, freedom and fearlessness.
The artist's description is actually quite positive.
The figure's bright red colour is described as auspicious, and the pose as an invitation to embrace our inner child.
But when I saw it?
I found it terrifying.
Not liberating.
Not playful.
Terrifying.
And I remember thinking:
Who decided this was something I should encounter beside the Seawall?
The sculpture was eventually removed after its exhibition period, which ran from March 8, 2021, to May 3, 2023.
That doesn't mean the artwork was “bad.”
It means something very important:
A work can have one intended meaning and produce a completely different emotional response in the person encountering it.
And now we have Vancouver Novel.
This is the work that triggered me into starting this investigation.
A sign beside Point Grey Road cycles through short sentences.
The Biennale describes them as sometimes banal and sometimes ominous.
The current installation contains 29 sentences, including six added in 2021.
And the words I have personally recorded include:
“He hides pills.”
“She is begging again.”
“They can see you.”
I don't find those messages uplifting.
I find them disturbing.
And I have started asking whether a public bike route is the right location for them.
Because I wasn't looking for an art experience.
I was riding my bicycle.
I wanted fresh air.
I wanted to clear my head.
And I encountered a message about pills.
For someone who has lost a loved one to an overdose, those words might land very differently.
For someone in recovery, differently again.
For someone experiencing homelessness, the phrase “She is begging again” can feel particularly loaded.
And that's where the idea of public art becomes complicated.
The artist doesn't control the audience.
That's the part I keep coming back to.
In a gallery, I choose to walk through the door.
On a public bike path, I don't.
The artwork becomes part of the environment.
And the audience becomes everyone.
Children.
Teenagers.
Parents.
People grieving.
People struggling.
People celebrating.
People having the worst day of their lives.
People having the best day of their lives.
Everyone.
But here's the part where I want to be fair.
Provoking an emotional response isn't automatically a bad thing.
In fact, the Biennale itself has historically embraced controversy.
In 2009, it acknowledged a major public debate over Dennis Oppenheim's Device to Root Out Evil, an upside-down church sculpture. The controversy became so intense that the work was eventually moved to Calgary.
So disagreement isn't new.
Public art has always generated arguments.
Maybe that's part of its purpose.
But if controversy is part of the process, then public response should matter.
That's my question.
What I don't want is a city filled with art that makes everyone feel the same thing.
That would be boring.
I want artists to challenge us.
Make us laugh.
Make us cry.
Make us furious.
Make us curious.
Make us think.
But I also want some public art that simply makes us happy.
And I think Giants demonstrates that you can create enormous, serious, internationally recognized public art without making the public feel psychologically assaulted.
The artists themselves said they wanted their work to establish a relationship with the people who frequent the site and integrate the artwork into the city scenery.
That is an idea of public art I can get behind.
So here's the question.
Not:
“Is this good art?”
That's almost impossible to answer.
Instead:
Is this good public art for this particular place?
Those are two completely different questions.
A work might be fascinating inside a gallery and completely wrong beside a children's playground.
A disturbing installation might be powerful in a carefully contextualized exhibition and deeply upsetting when encountered unexpectedly on a bike path.
A giant colourful mural might transform an industrial landscape and bring joy to millions.
Location matters.
Audience matters.
Context matters.
And public reaction matters.
So as this investigation continues, I'm going to ask the Biennale a very simple question:
What does “public” mean to you?
Does it mean the public gets to see the art?
Or does it also mean the public gets to have a meaningful voice about what appears in the spaces we all share?
Because those aren't the same thing.
Part 5: THE PUBLIC GETS A SAY — OR DOES IT?
That's where we'll look at consultations, complaints, public feedback and what actually happens when people say:
“We don't want this here.”
