Christopher Wool | Gagosian
You can test whether great art is actually great art - it’ll be great regardless of where and how it’s displayed. This is a test Christopher Wool fails, based on a tiny sample size: a pair of exhibitions and a single viewer - me.
Wool shows rarely. A retrospective at the Guggenheim in 2014, and nothing following that until three new exhibitions over the past 18 months: first in New York City, now in London and Marfa, Texas. The viewer is therefore encouraged to feel the specialness of each glimpse we get of him.
It was certainly a special occasion when he took over a disused upper floor of a skyscraper in New York City’s financial district last spring, lacing the space with his trademark wiggly wire sculptures, glitchy prints and photos. I saw it, and was thrilled. Certainly by the combination of the art, the derelict looking space with its raw drywall, the spectacular city views through the window.
Now I’ve seen a lot of the same work in London, I’m not so sure that the art was pulling its weight. Compared to the humble surroundings in New York, Gagosian is such a fancy gallery that I was told off by security for leaning on a bare, white, pristine wall. Perhaps I was being insufficiently reverent, given it’s the first Wool solo show in London in 21 years.
I viewed the curly wire sculptures and blotchy grey prints in a familiar space, in my home city. In New York last year, I still had my backpack from the plane when I stepped out of the lift, at leisure, excited to see something new. The glitchiness of the works - Wool leaves the screws and sutres of his metal sculptures visible; his wall works are based entirely around imperfect repetition - was left stranded on those white walls. And, somehow, their impact was lost. Is that all, I thought?
Next to the gallery’s entrance is a book with installation views of the skyscraper show, which now fades into happy holiday memory. I’d thought at the time I’d experienced some form of artistic revelation. In fact, I’d just been pleased to be there. The book seemed vaguely pornographic - futile - prodding and stoking semi-dormant memories. The thrill has gone.
Christopher Wool is at Gagosian (London) 13 October - 19 December 2025