The Hungarian expression for »over the counter« refers less to the international financial world or to pharmaceuticals, as it does to a way of life and a structured social order. Mostly, it harks back to something that was once called ‘socialism with a human face’. The exhibition’s title recalls various 1970s/80s east-European TV-series, in particular the Czechoslovakian »Women Behind the Counter«, which nowadays could be viewed as a down-to-earth, realistic soap opera, centred around a small-town grocery. The characters of the series lived in an idyllic world in which private problems and social conflicts would occur, only to be resolved through a profound empathy and a highly-developed morality. This type of series (»Hospital at the End of the City«, »Hot Wind«) are a transparent representation of the kind of nostalgia that still colours the perception of the socialist regime (the ‘soft dictatorship’) among the older generation. According to this perspective, all this was lost with the Change (the Fall of Communism), which, although it brought about the reign of ‘inhuman’ capitalism, widened markets and allowed real parliamentary democracy, it actually tore apart the illusion held by most of the population that it was possible back then to live life comfortably.
The concept of this large-scale exhibition – encompassing 30 artists and focusing on the phenomenon and processes of the post-socialist economy – is to present a selection of contemporary artists (Margareta Kern, Kristina Inčiūraité, and Anetta Mona Chişa & Lucia Tkáčová) who describe the past 20 years of post-socialism through the fate of particular women. Based either on sociological research and in-depth interviews, or on lyrical, almost magical realist sequences, the works of art are actually not so far removed from the old Czechoslovakian films. However, where these works reveal various micro-histories (the migration of women, the decline of national industry, the influx of multinational capital), there is no sense of the nostalgia so characteristic of the region’s interpretation of its past. Most of the artists were brought up after the fall of the socialist regime, so their works reflect the illusions of capitalism rather than those of communism. They talk about what has happened and what is still happening within the structure of socialist economy; one where jobs are becoming more precarious and where workers increasingly feel that they are treated as the playthings of a new, disingenuous, system.
The resigned acceptance of this insecure situation generates some iconic images in several of the works in the exhibition. The mood is reflected in the photographs of Mladen Stilinović, where ‘bag-people’ saunter from a local market, in Anna Molsk’s video installation »Work & Power«, in which Polish workers perform their ‘constructive’ jobs, and in Katerina Šedá’s project »What Can You Do?«, where Czech citizens are interviewed as they live through the ‘appropriation’ of their land and of their lives.
Perhaps the densest pictorial vision of this feeling of resignation is Miklós Erhardt’s looped video »Parallax« in which ‘homeless’ dogs lie around, staring into space and reacting almost imperceptibly with slight head and ear movements, to the incomprehensible events of the ‘outside world’.
This critical approach reveals intricate micro-histories, which, although thematically and ideologically interconnected, are more difficult for the viewer to acknowledge than the iconic images, such as the ones used by Kamen Stojanov, Łukasz Skapski, and Société Réaliste.
Stojanov set up his self-ironic text on the top of one of the region’s emblematic rundown concrete block of flats: »Guys, this is not L.A., but it’s a cool place too! Advertise here!«. Skapski’s pictures, evoking monochrome canvases, highlight the polished finishes of luxury cars (Porsche, Lexus and BMW) with key scratches on their paintwork, representing the frustration of ordinary people.
The work of Société Réaliste is more ‘site-specific’. Using crossed-out sentences from the 1949 communist Hungarian Constitution, and the 1989 democratic one, printed in black and red, they re-create a woodcarving depicting György Dózsa, made by the most famous Hungarian critical realist painter Gyula Derkovits. At a distance, the picture represents the well-known Hungarian peasant insurgent with a date (»19?9«) on his forehead, and an fire-branded text on his chest: »bloody peasant«. However, when you come closer to the picture, you can see the words of the two constitutions, exposing the fact that the artists replaced the original ‘peasant’ with the word ‘parallel’. What kind of parallel are they referring to? Perhaps to the relationship and the resemblances between communist and capitalist oppression, or to the fact that the revolution of common people is always destined to failure?
Yet the strongest emotional and intellectual impact comes from installations such as the one by Zsolt Keserue, or by Mona Vătămanu and Florin Tudor. The former presents a video on the home-building resourcefulness (by necessity) of the ‘socialist man’, staged in the setting of a collapsed block of flats. The latter, »Land Distribution«, forming a sort of pair with another installation by the same artists entitled »The Path (Rust Ingots)«, divides up the white cube of the Kunsthalle with rusted steel pickets linked via VHS-tapes. The rust obviously evokes the rundown reality of the socialist path, but the construction emphasises the obstinate permanence of the utopias of communism, while the VHS-tapes ironically highlight the ambivalent documentary role of contemporary art.
Nevertheless, from the perspective of the exhibition and the post-socialist region as a whole, three ‘installations’ that are not presented seem to be emblematic. One is the city of Gyumri itself, which appears in Uriel Orlow’s ghostly film entitled »The Remnants of the Future«. The others are two works by Mircea Cantor, taken from his one-man show in the Kunsthalle two years ago. The large concrete bands of »Future Gifts« embrace the void, while the wolf in the video »Departure« wanders indifferently around a trembling deer.
Beyond the major earthquake and national riots, the Gyumri Biennale appears to be a decisive success story, while the works of Cantor suggest that capitalism not only comes bearing no gifts, but that its attention is also hard to satisfy. Twenty years after the fall of communism, the already well-worn impressions of an extinct way of life are no longer exciting in themselves, serving, at most, as an alternative background to the ragged images of capitalism itself. The capitalist wolf of today is no longer Walt Disney’s coyote, hungry for its for prey, nor even the patiently curious post-colonialist one of Joseph Beuys, but a jaded, disillusioned, globalised predator licking its own wounds.