A bald eagle's nest by Fritz Haeg--big enough to hold a human being--perches outside on the Whitney's concrete awning, provocatively ecological and barely visible. Jason Rhoades's manic assembly line, The Grand Machine/Theareola (2002), sprawls through the lobby gallery, a fine homage to the artist as well as a comment on production, consumption, and instant gratification. In the elevator, Bert Rodriguez's The End, with vinyl lettering on the doors and speakers broadcasting the ultimate Hollywood Muzak, tips its hat to Ed Ruscha. "As time goes by," indeed.
But ultimately, this year's Whitney Biennial--with its barren Sheetrock and chain-link, its postindustrial strip-mall shells, faded bulletin-board photo walls, and glitter-edged broken cinder blocks--is a disappointment. It feels unfinished and incomplete. There's a void at its heart. In one way, this exhibition is a sequel to the New Museum's curatorial vision of art among the rubble, even including some of the same artists: Rachel Harrison, Carol Bove, Jedediah Caesar.
