Sol LeWitt’s quote informs me in the gallery guide: “Conceptual artists are mystics rather than rationalists. They leap to conclusions that logic cannot reach”. Mystics or Rationalists?, a remnant of the 2011 Edinburgh Art Festival, showcases nine artists, giving each ample space on the gallery’s two puristric, light-flooded floors.

The exhibition promises “a sense of the magical” and “an inclination to subvert the ordinary” to  turn it into “objects of rarefied contemplation”. It spans a range of media – among them photography, visual installation, sculpture and an array of light bulbs designed to simulate moonlight for an average human lifespan. This, I’m told, is “a poignant reminder that in the end all we add up to is a crate of 289 bulbs”. Statements like this illustrate the issue I have with a lot of modern art. Especially in galleries where, after all, you are being encouraged to buy, it often comes with briefings intended to install a sense of deeper meaning. Just as often, this fails. While I appreciate information about creative process, I refuse to be told what to think about a piece of art. My life will never be contained in a crate of light bulbs.

Are conceptual artists mystics or rationalists? The press release has that figured out, too: “perhaps, in the end, a little bit of both”. I believe the question is flawed. To me, conceptual art is not about the artist’s personality, idea or message. It is as much, if not more, about the observer experiencing it, interacting with it, making sense of it. It’s not about getting it right or wrong, but about whether you can connect with a piece of art. It’s like getting someone’s humour, being on the same wavelength.  Any comment I make is likely to reveal more about myself than the artist, and reviewing an exhibition like this can become a surprisingly personal affair.

Out of all the pieces on show, only one really caught my attention – Simon Starling’s Autoxylopyrocycloboros. In a darkened room, a never ending slideshow tracks the passing of the wooden steam ship Dignity, sailing in circles on Loch Long while being gradually sawed to pieces and fed, bit by bit, into its own wood-burning boiler. Eventually, it will sink itself and drift to the bottom of the lake, to disintegrate. To me, that is a beautiful metaphor. I encourage you to disagree.

Four Stars