I can be a little grumpy about museums. Going to a museum creates a sense of stress in my body, like visiting a dog shelter. Look at all of these glorious things, stuck behind locked doors. There’s too much to see and it’s sterile and crowded.
But the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) in Hobart, Tasmania is to a museum what a bicycle-riding unicorn is to a stick of gum. It opened in 2011 and is the pet project of David Walsh, a Tassie who made zillions in professional gambling and, instead of blowing it on pool boys and cufflinks, proclaimed, “You know what this Australian island state needs? A crazy museum with all the stuff that I like. What’s that you say? You have an issue with the animal carcass encased in latex that I want hanging from the ceiling? You object to the loud waterfall that spells out random words pulled from the web? You are offended by the hundreds of plaster cast vaginas? Well, start your own museum and shut up about what constitutes art.” (This is a direct quote from my fantasy of a city council meeting).
The museum is free to Tasmanian residents and $20 for visitors. It sits on a hill in Hobart, and is accessible by bus, car or preferably a ferry with a full bar and attractive Tasmanians wearing spiffy gray MONA jumpsuits (I asked one of them where I can purchase such a magnificent jumpsuit and he told me you only get one if you work on the ferry. My traveling companion, my brother, then asked if he could get a ferry job for one day and run off with the jumpsuit.).
MONA sits on several acres of lush vineyards. Walking up the hill, there are a few hints of what lies ahead. The parking lot has two reserved spots for “God” and “God’s Mistress.” There is a large trampoline covered in bells manned by a staffer who encourages every visitor to “have a go.” There are beanbags on a stage, a cast iron “teepee cathedral” and a glorious wine bar that opens at 9am (ahem). And because you are in Tasmania and not New York, London or Paris, there are no throngs of people fighting their way in. It is just you, your brother, and a handful of European tourists, who will come face to face with some of the weirdest art on the planet.
There is no signage at MONA. No artist statements on the wall, no titles. Upon entering the main building, Daniel and I were encouraged by a smiling, blond gentleman to take the elevator three stories below ground to pick up our customized iPods that would offer more information about each piece “if you want to learn more. Some people don’t.”
Once underground, we gaped at staged photographs of naked homeless people, pulled open drawers to reveal old photographs and pieces of twine, watched a video of a woman vigorously brushing her hair, and tried to avoid walking past a five-foot tall horrifying doll standing on one end of a giant seesaw.
We walked through a tunnel to a participatory exhibit, by Marina Abramovic, called Rice and Lentil Counting, where for over an hour, I sat on a wooden bench wearing a lab coat and noise cancelling headphones, separating and counting a pile of rice (3,662) and lentils (1,188).
Entering a room at the far end of the museum, I suddenly held my breath. We had arrived at the shit show.
The MONA piece de resistance is Cloace, or what the locals refer to as the poo machine. It is part of MONA’s permanent collection, which my brother and I decided means that it will be shown for a few years and then will be lovingly placed in a permanent storage unit never to be seen again.
Minus the artsy fartsy (pun intended) lingo, Cloace is a large machine that imitates the human digestive system. It was created by a team of scientists and engineers, led by a Belgian artist named Wim Delvoye who is now living in China due to the fact that his home country takes issue with his current endeavor, tattooing live pigs (typical Belgians with their ethical end-of-life treatments and commitment to chocolate). A MONA staffer is tasked with feeding Cloace two meals a day, prepared by the museum café. She told us Cloace does not respond well to alcohol so it only drinks warm water. Cloace digests a small amount of meat every day but generally prefers raw greens. Cloace is more or less that dinner party guest.
Every day at 2pm, without fail, Cloaca poos. Real poo comes out of a metal tube onto a glass plate. Poo. On a plate. At a museum. It makes me positively giddy.
On the return ferry, watching the clouds move across the sky, I felt transformed. What was all of that? It was all so beautiful and grotesque. I felt disturbed and thrilled and not at all grumpy. This was the museum I had been waiting for.
Tasmania sits quietly off the coast of Victoria. It is about the size of Massachusetts, with one-tenth the population. The city of Hobart is cradled between the mountains and the harbor. They have the best oysters and whisky in the world, and their infamous Devils are even creepier than you imagine. The people are good-humored and kind; many of them have long bushy beards. Tassie’s beauty took my breath away. And it wasn’t just the poo.
