There is no doubt that our lives if not governed by ritual and geared to it. Organised repetition of the same acts in the same order are part and parcel and where no ritual exists, we invent one. Some rituals are small time and domestic while others involve large crowds, chanting and fireworks such as the annual extravaganza of New Year’s Eve on Sydney Harbour bridge. There is a recognised social function to such events encompassing nationalistic pride and group catharsis at the marking of the passage of time but the ritual of visiting major art galleries while not typically involving chanting and fireworks as large crowds pass through the doors to the travelling blockbuster to come to an agreement about the worth of the art and life of the artist is no less a practiced endeavour. As an organised cultural experience, the current Frida Kahlo/Rivera exhibition at the Art Gallery of South Australia is like greeting old friends. Certainly, the backstory of abuse, vulnerability, stoic heroism and personal misfortune has been repeated as nauseam until any art that doesn’t plumb those illustrative depths seems shallow by comparison. It helps that Kahlo and Rivera led such colourful lives and that the turbulence of Mexican politics provided such a backdrop.

Part of any gallery ritual is the explanation provided. The necessity to explain in objective terms is all-pervasive and often becomes the be-all and end-all of looking at a work of art. Much of this is the fault of an analytical trend in art criticism that took hold with the advent of modernism and the question ‘what does it all mean?’ has assumed that there is meaning to be found and identified via the historical narrative. Patrons avidly read every word of the Kahlo story and no doubt memorised passages to pass on later as learning.  Unfortunately, if you were relying on the printed narrative to guide you towards aesthetic appreciation, the low light levels all but rendered that impossible. While low light levels might create atmosphere and a sense of the dreamlike in the eyes of curation teams, it does little to enhance works that need daylight, but part of the ritual is that cathedral-like quiet with darkened corners that draws people ever closer to the walls in search of a liturgy.

The AGSA like many major galleries, positions its major exhibitions as far from the front door as possible. Visitors have the choice of passing though the galleries of historical work or down the concrete walkway between the buildings and even then the sense of ritual is amplified in approaching the underground gallery down two flights of stairs, ticket in hand, to a series of rooms steeped in the mystery of Mexican art. This exhibition like many others is a manufactured piece of theatricality. Perhaps that is what people expect. Theatre and art as entertainment with art coming in second. Incidentally, I chose to walk through the galleries historic sections and was alone in doing so. Those galleries were devoid of art aficionados.

Adjacent to the Kahlo exhibition area in a secluded corner I found a Sean Scully ‘Wall of Light’. Scully is a lot less colourful as a personality and still working across a world where political concerns play no part in his work. The paintings produced in New York, Toyko and London are not reliant on external forces but on simple acts of perception on the part of Scully. I doubt that any of the 30,000 who have visited the Kahlo since it opened have even noticed this major work by Scully. Contemporary art is more ‘difficult’ than the narrative self-portrait of the Kahlo/Rivera and even with the customary title and explanation on the wall requires a one-to-one commitment of time to appreciate the subtleties of colour and form.

A day later I saw a television look-see of the Kahlo on the news. Five women suitably dressed in Kahlo-style peasant costumes swayed in time behind the reporter who waxed lyrical about the exhibition or at least the ritualistic spectacle of it all before launching into the day’s weather. For the benefit of the TV camera the lighting levels had been raised to almost daylight and I could actually see the paintings for what they would have looked like when they were painted. It was enough to tempt at least equal numbers to make the journey in bucket-list fashion to take part in this ritual of cultural appreciation.

In the meantime with the annual SALA roundup of some 15,000 artists exhibiting in shops, corridors and in one case, a hardware store, throughout August, most would be lucky to see more than a handful of hardy patrons beyond family and friends no matter how compelling the back story. Trekking from one remote or obscure location to another within the laneways of the CBD is a ritual in itself as is trying to discern what the exhibition might be about from the paragraph guide of what an artist friend of mine describes as ‘hippy shit’. By that he means woolly statements about revelatory intuition steeped in the mysticism of the universe. Ritual and revelation. Relevance? You’d have to make the journey.