I will never forget the first time I encountered the groundbreaking 1991 work of Cuban-born queer artistFelix González-Torres called "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.).
A pile of shiny candies in a museum gallery beckoned me to hesitantly grab and eat one. Then I read the label explaining the installation: "This is González-Torres's unconventional portrait of his partner, Ross Laycock, who died of an AIDS-related illness in 1991. The candies' combined weight, 175 pounds, corresponds to Laycock's ideal weight before he got ill. Visitors are invited to sample the sweets. As the candy disappears, the pile shrinks in mass and weight, reenacting the debilitating effects of Laycock's illness."
When I understood the profound meaning of this installation as an AIDS memorial, and realized how, as the museum keeps replenishing the pile, Felix is giving his partner eternal life, I burst into tears, experiencing the transformative power of art.
Felix, who died from AIDS complications in 1996, invites the viewer to participate in his works, which combine a minimalistic aesthetic with a very personal and political stance imbued with identities tied to race, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic and immigrant status.
There is probably no artist more identified with the AIDS crisis than Felix -- he once famously compared his role to "a virus, an imposter, an infiltrator" seeking to "always replicate myself together with those institutions" of power. His seminal works have turned him into one of the most important artists of the late '80s and early '90s, with his message reverberating louder than ever in our present times.
I recently flew to Washington D.C., to view a retrospective of Felix's work titled "Always to Return," showing at the Smithsonian's National Portrait Gallery until July 6.
My worries began when the exhibition's introductory sign omitted Felix's connection to the AIDS crisis, highlighting instead the "multiple dynamic meanings of his work." My fears turned into outrage when I read the museum label for "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.), which, instead of explaining the installation's title and meaning, refers to "175 pounds as ideal weight," not specifically Ross's.
Also, the museum displays the candy on a narrow path along the floor instead of in a pile, expressing on a separate label that it is entitled to "decide the size and configuration for this installation as well as to whether to replenish the candy." Be that as it may, the Smithsonian's chosen set-up destroys the monumental allegorical and emotional impact of seeing Felix's candy pile diminish.