Diane Arbus. Lady on a Bus, N.Y.C., 1957; gelatin silver print; 14 x 11 in. Courtesy of the Met Breuer. © The Estate of Diane Arbus, LLC.

I was not even a full sentence into reading the online description for Diane Arbus: In the Beginning at the Met Breuer, an exhibition dedicated to the artist’s earliest works, before I had doubts. It was this tidbit that gave me pause: “Featuring more than 100 photographs that together will redefine one of the most influential and provocative artists of the 20th century.” I’m not above hyperbole, but come on. The beginning of any photographer’s career might show development as an artist, but would this phase redefine a photographer’s image? I doubted that seeing her path to finding her voice would redefine how I perceived Arbus in any significant way.

The setup is perhaps the most sublime part of the exhibition. Each photograph is hung on its own two-foot-wide panel, with a three-foot gap between panels arranged in rows. The physical setup of the exhibition forces viewers to stop and contemplate each photograph on its own terms. The panels and the space in between create a rhythm: look, think, rest, restart. Arranged as such, the gallery becomes a room-size contact sheet of Arbus’ work. Much like on an actual contact sheet, a number of the photographs don’t feel worthy of display, much less in a major art museum. For instance, the exhibit had numerous pictures Arbus took of movie screens. Seeing one such image is informative; seeing three, some of which are blurry or out of focus, is two too many. However, the setup forces viewers to stop and contemplate the lesser works anyway.

And don’t get me wrong, there are still great works in this show. There’s Arbus’ famous Child with Toy Hand Grenade in Central Park (1962), and a number of other photographs exemplify Arbus at her wonky best. In these works that most clearly anticipate her later work, viewers can see what caught Arbus’ eye early on—a weird look from a passerby or a wax statue, stuck in the uncanny valley. The exhibition’s greatest virtue is placing her truly amazing works in better context. Arbus was a committed practitioner; one realizes the practice, time, and effort that Arbus went through to make her more iconic works. But if you go to the exhibition, don’t expect to be radically changed by it, as claimed by its promotional materials. Photographs are not allowed in the galleries, which is a pity. Because really, what’s more Arbusian than taking pictures of people blankly staring at photographs, trying to find a deep meaning where there may be none?

Diane Arbus: In the Beginning will be on view through November 27, 2016.

Henry Rittenberg is a recent graduate of Hamilton College, where he studied art history. He is now studying photography in New York.

Janet Cardiff. The Forty Part Motet, 2001; installation view, Fort Mason Center for Arts & Culture, gallery 308, San Francisco, 2015. Courtesy of Fort Mason Center for Arts & Culture and San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Photo: JKA Photography.

Spem in alium nunquam habui 
Praeter in te, Dues Israel

I have never put my hope in any other
But in You, O God of Israel.

On paper, the first two lines of Thomas Tallis’s motet, composed in 1573, pack no special punch. Yet the effect of the words is rather different when the musical composition is played through forty speakers in Janet Cardiff’s The Forty Part Motet (2001), now at the Fort Mason Center for Arts & Culture. The speakers are set in the form of an oval with two benches at the center, where Tallis’s motet, as recorded by the Salisbury Cathedral Choir, plays on a fourteen-minute loop.

Most listeners followed one of two paths: starting in the center and spiraling out, or beginning next to one speaker and slowly spiraling their way in. The audience is allowed the opportunity to hear forty voices in unison, then they can walk a bit closer and listen to just twenty, then ten, then just five, until finally they usually end up in front of one speaker. I, too, often found myself chasing one particular voice, as if beckoned by a siren’s song. Yet seldom did I find the voice before the part was over.

The alternating voices give the piece a sense of movement and life, though the only movement is that of the spectators. Indeed, that’s one of the goals of the piece; Cardiff’s work allows viewers (or listeners? or audience members?) to go inside the motet and interact with it. Glancing at fellow listeners, at least half have closed their eyes. Some transformation has occurred, as many appear mesmerized, or in an ecstatic state.

Cardiff’s work allows for the contemporary reexamination of the Renaissance’s motet, but it is the location that makes the work even more poignant. The scenic view out of the window looks toward the East Harbor and, further out, the Golden Gate Bridge. For at least fourteen minutes, one’s ears and eyes are so thoroughly occupied that it is difficult to think of anything else but the music and the view. Audience members can discover the power of an impeccably composed piece of religious choral music in a modern, secular context, one that is as close to transcendental as any in San Francisco.

Janet Cardiff: The Forty Part Motet is on view at Fort Mason Center for Arts & Culture through January 18, 2016. 

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Henry Rittenberg is a recent graduate of Hamilton College, where he studied art history. He is now studying photography in New York.