Wolfgang Laib's Pollen from Hazelnut at The Henry Art Gallery

            I had visited the Henry with the anticipation of being bored and underwhelmed—nothing seemed exciting about a pollen collection. However, once I viewed and experienced Wolfgang Laib’s installation piece Pollen from Hazelnut, 1995 - 1996 in person, my reaction was quite the opposite. The minimalism of a rectangle of golden pollen on the floor of an open, white room somehow felt intimate, yet monumental. 

            The doorway into the installation was surrounded by a low, clear barrier, only allowing a single person to view – but not enter – the room at a time. The room was a white, open space with nothing in it aside from the pollen on the floor. The isolation of myself as the viewer and the barrier, distancing me from the piece itself, made me feel relatively small, experiencing a sense of sublime – an overwhelming feeling of something bigger than ourselves causing both terror and awe – from the grandeur of the space. The space felt oddly sterile – the floor lacked color or texture and bright, white lights illuminated the white, stark walls. The vents filled the room with a low, soft whirring sound. The airflow was completely controlled. The only warmth in the room was supplied by the pollen.

            The open space drew focus to this centerpiece. The pollen was a fine powder, almost indistinguishable from pure pigment, laid out in a rectangle on a smooth floor painted with light-grey deck paint. The edges of the rectangle weren’t crisp and precise, but rather soft and blurry. The layers of pollen formed a completely uniform, matte pool of gold, almost looking like it had depth; I felt as if I could dive right in. My gaze was absorbed in the utter smoothness and purity of the material.

The piece was a both a balance and contrast of the nourishment represented by the pollen with the bareness of the room, the fragility of the light, powdered material with the overwhelmingly sublime, heavenly space. I felt both at peace and uncomfortable.

            Days, months and years of labor laid right before my eyes, materialized. Laib’s piece reminded me of the artworks of Buddhist monks – pieces made of ephemeral, powdery materials on the floor that are diligently worked on over long spans of time, but could be destroyed in an instant. And much like contemporary artist Mandy Greer, who both feels an intimate connection to her surroundings and ritualistically collects her materials over long periods of time, Wolfgang Laib lives and works in the same small village in Germany that he did as a child, collecting pollen by hand every year during the spring and summer. As the name implies, the pollen in this piece was collected from hazelnut bushes. It was as if Laib was a worker bee himself, exhibiting the results of his efforts.

            Thinking about Laib’s ritual – a set of repeated actions done with an intended meaning or consciousness – of collecting the pollen and his intimacy with the material and his natural surroundings made me feel an odd sense of intimacy and introspection myself. I somehow felt connected to Laib, as he has exposed himself and shared his own intimate experiences with the public. And after leaving the piece, I had felt cleansed. I had felt alive. I had felt human. I came to the Henry with the anticipation of indifference and left having had a spiritual experience.

Wolfgang Laib, Pollen From Hazelnut, 1995 – 1996. Pollen from Hazelnut bushes.

Artist Laib collects pollen from Hazelnut bushes and sprinkles the pollen on the floor in a uniformly smooth rectangle.

Wolfgang Laib, Pollen from Hazelnut, 1995 – 1996. Pollen from Hazelnut bushes.

Artist Laib collects pollen from Hazelnut bushes and sprinkles the pollen on the floor in a uniformly smooth rectangle. With the exception of the pollen, of the pollen, the space is completely white and empty.