Attacking Viewers with Sound: Bruce Nauman on View at Tai Kwun Contemporary

Bruce Nauman, Contrapposto Studies, I through VII, 2015/2016 (still), seven-channel HD video installation, (color, sound), continuous play. Jointly owned by the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Pinault Collection. © 2024 Bruce Nauman / Artists Rights Society (ARS), courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York (fig. 1)

By CHRIS DOYEN July 4, 2024  

Sound functions as an undeniably powerful component of many of Bruce Nauman’s artworks. The installation at the Tai Kwun Contemporary in Hong Kong is no exception. Currently on view from May 15 to August 18, the retrospective offers a compelling example of the impact of sound on spectators, an element of the Nauman’s work that remains difficult to quantify.

Noise inundates the two largest rooms of the Tai Kwun Contemporary, augmenting the intensity of the artworks on view. In one example, we have Nauman’s Contrapposto Studies (2015-2016) (fig. 1), in which these effects play a subtle but compelling role, seemingly from the sidelines. The second instance comes by way of a grouping of video works on one floor of the museum—including pieces reaching as far back as the 1960s; here, audiences encounter a constellation of disturbing noises, which coalesce in the aggregate to completely overwhelm audiences.  

The numbers referenced in the title Contrapposto Studies, I through VII denote the seven video projections that comprise the artwork. Video projections one and two—located in a separate room of their own—depict four images of the artist himself walking forwards and backwards, these larger than life-size bodies evoking the monumentality of sculpture. However, sound does not figure in as prominently in these first two videos.

The largest room of the museum holds videos three through seven. It should be noted here that two particularly poignant details of the figures on the wall of this room become rather unsettling. First, the bodies have been sliced to pieces. Second, some of the diced-up body parts disappear from view by walking off screen. Both of these phenomena work in concert to prompt a sort of visual enigma (fig. 2).

Bruce Nauman, Contrapposto Studies, I through VII, 2015/2016 (detail), seven-channel HD video installation, (color, sound), continuous play. Jointly owned by the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Pinault Collection. © 2024 Bruce Nauman / Artists Rights Society (ARS), courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York (fig. 2)

Add to this a disturbing soundtrack, and one has the recipe for psychophysiological confusion. Strangely, the barrage of rapid-fire sound effects in Contrapposto Studies, I through VII seems to come from nowhere, due to the speakers fastened inconspicuously to the ceiling high above, raining down sounds upon the audience. One particularly unnerving aspect of the soundtrack can be found in the fact that the audio consists of a recording of the action of all seven of the videos compiled into one, and then played in reverse. This results in the sounds being out of sync with the movements we see—a signature feature of Nauman’s formal strategies, and one that is clearly on display in another artwork in the exhibition titled Lip Sync (1969).

Something else to point out about the overlapping tracks played in reverse is that they produce indescribable sounds, which is to say, we seem to be in the presence of something not commonly heard in everyday experience. While the preternatural scrapes and knocks of Contrapposto Studies, I through VII may be faintly reminiscent of the din of a factory assembly line, the unpredictable hissing and random tapping come together to generate something altogether unusual.

I assert that these sounds play a powerful, but largely unacknowledged, role in Contrapposto Studies, I through VII, as evidenced by a seeming gap in the literature in relation to this element. Here, Nauman has deliberately distanced us from the standard associations evoked by commonplace human interactions. Put another way, one would normally connect a particular action with a certain sound; however, in this case, Nauman has purposely disconnected the sound as signifier from its typical signified. In that we rely so heavily on these standard connections to make it through the day, a disruption of this nature causes confusion, like the sense of anxiety prompted by that unidentifiable bump in the night.

Bruce Nauman, Think, 1993, two-channel video (color, sound) 37 sec. The Museum of Modern Art, New York, gift of Werner and Elain Dannheisser, 1996. Photograph by Chris Doyen, installation view, Tai Kwun Contemporary. © 2024 Bruce Nauman / Artists Rights Society (ARS), courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York (fig. 3)

That being said, the impact of sound in the second room we enter becomes even more intense. Upon walking in, the first piece directly in front of us is Nauman’s video installation titled Think (1993) (fig. 3), comprised of two television monitors stacked on top of each other, depicting Nauman’s head bobbing up and down, in and off screen, commanding us to “think.” To complicate matters, the action on the top monitor is upside down. The unwavering insistence of this brief mantra looped in quick succession ends up obliterating the audience’s attempts at contemplation.

To one’s left, another video titled Thank You (1992) (fig. 4) features Nauman barking the titular phrase at us ad nauseum, eyes open wide and head twitching while as he shouts. Although it seems likely these video artworks were initially conceived to be experienced in isolation rather than viewed alongside one another, the effect of their positioning in such close proximity may be enough to befuddle even the most seasoned spectators.

Bruce Nauman, Thank You, 1992, single-channel video (color, sound) 4 mins., 57 sec. Collection of Ydessa Hendeles. Photograph by Chris Doyen, installation view, Tai Kwun Contemporary. © 2024 Bruce Nauman / Artists Rights Society (ARS), courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York (fig. 4)

Therefore, adding the frantic monologue of a hysterical jester to the mix induces a sort of sonic chaos. In Clown Torture (I’m Sorry) (fig. 5), museumgoers witness one of the tormented clowns of Nauman’s Clown Torture (1987) series. She yells, “I’m sorry for what I did! I don’t know why I did it!” in an utterly frenzied apology. As evidenced by the reaction of at least one of the spectators in attendance the day I visited, remaining in the room may ultimately be too difficult for some to endure.  

In this respect, French philosopher Roland Barthes’s theories become decidedly useful in analyzing Nauman’s work. Barthes’s notion of the punctum in his book Camera Lucida centers on a particularly poignant aspect of a photograph that grabs our attention, some specific detail with the power to “sting” (27) or “mark” (26) viewers. I assert that, in Nauman’s video installations, sound functions as a punctum with the potential to “sting” the spectator.  The artworks produce what I have termed a sonic punctum: a sound with the power to sear the audience.

Bruce Nauman, Clown Torture (I’m Sorry), 1987, video (color, sound, on ¾ inch NTSC) 60 mins., 2 sec. Pinault Collection. Photograph by Chris Doyen, installation view, Tai Kwun Contemporary. © 2024 Bruce Nauman / Artists Rights Society (ARS), courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York (fig. 5)

Nauman’s large exhibition was at the Tate Museum in London in 2021, before travelling to the Stedelijk Museum in 2022. His work then appeared at Pirelli Hangar Bicocca in 2023. Though smaller than these recent exhibits, the current show at Tai Kwun Contemporary is noteworthy in terms of the role sound plays in the artworks. I believe the arrangement of artworks in the relatively compact size of the venue accentuates this already compelling component of the artist’s oeuvre. This can be felt clearly in the main hall, showcasing a selection of Nauman’s iconic video works arrayed in very close proximity. The effect highlights just how severe the impact of sound can be—targeting primal levels of being and eliciting extreme responses—an element that has been part of Nauman’s work for decades now, but one which may often go unacknowledged. WM

References

Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang. 1980.