Imagine stepping into an art gallery and being confronted by two enormous buttocks, each twice the size of your head, staring you right in the eye – that's the jaw-dropping entrance to Ron Mueck's groundbreaking exhibition in Sydney!
We begin from the rear: two plump, rounded buttocks loom at eye level, each one massive enough to dwarf my head. This is how visitors first meet the Art Gallery of New South Wales' summer showcase, Ron Mueck: Encounter – the biggest Australian display ever of this renowned expatriate sculptor's creations, covering nearly three decades of his output.
As you walk around this gigantic form, a wave of realization hits: she's massively pregnant, on the verge of delivery, with her eyes shut and lips slightly parted in what seems like a calm, weary sigh of endurance from carrying such a heavy load – especially in the sweltering Sydney summer heat.
Mueck's Pregnant Woman always draws crowds wherever it's displayed: it's classically gorgeous, a masterpiece of technical skill, and offers a bold counterpoint to countless traditional and revered portrayals of women in art. Without any descriptive plaques on the walls (a feature across the entire exhibit), the piece communicates a powerful message on its own: pregnant women deserve to be immortalized in grand monuments.
And monumental she is: standing at 2.5 meters tall. This embodies Mueck's signature style – hyper-realistic human figures in various stages of undress, scaled either enormous or tiny, capturing universal human experiences from birth to death. The AGNSW show features some of his most beloved pieces, such as a petite couple nestled together in bed, two oversized retirees lounging beneath a beach umbrella, and a small elderly woman resting in bed (though this last one is hidden in a secluded spot in the adjacent old AGNSW building, accessible for free as an extra).
Mueck's exhibits consistently draw massive crowds, often with lines wrapping around the block and shattering attendance milestones. Yet, art critics tend to be far less enthusiastic, often delivering harsh reviews that liken his sculptures to wax figures from Madame Tussauds, criticizing their overly emotional tone and rigid commitment to lifelike detail. For instance, The Guardian's Adrian Searle, reviewing Mueck's 2003 exhibition at London's National Gallery, remarked: “It's all so flawless – and utterly dull … There's an inescapable cheesiness and sentimentality in everything he produces.” Fellow journalist Jonathan Jones, lamenting a later show at the National Galleries of Scotland, labeled his work “mindless. It focuses on emotions and leaves the intellect empty.” He even quipped, “Anyone who praises his sculptures … should venture outside more often,” sparking a flurry of outraged replies from readers.
But here's where it gets controversial: Is Mueck's hyper-realism truly boring, or is it a genius way to make us confront the raw vulnerabilities of humanity?
In a sense, Mueck makes an easy target: originally from Melbourne, raised in a family of toy craftsmen, he began as a puppet creator and performer on kids' TV shows before moving to New York and then the UK, where he collaborated with Jim Henson on projects like Labyrinth – not just designing but also inhabiting the suit of the gentle monster Ludo. After some time crafting models for commercials, he transitioned into fine art through his mother-in-law, the celebrated British painter Paula Rego, when she commissioned him to build a Pinocchio figure for her 1996 show. That puppet caught the eye of the infamous ad executive turned gallerist Charles Saatchi, catapulting Mueck into London's elite art circles alongside Young British Artists like Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin.
This background has only fueled his critics, who see him more as a skilled craftsman than a true artist, more like a seller of cheesy greeting card sentiments than a profound storyteller. For his part, Mueck remains silent publicly about his creations – no defenses or explanations from him.
Those eager to form their own opinions this summer will get the best possible view of Mueck's artistry. The AGNSW exhibition is meticulously arranged to highlight the interaction between observer and artwork, grouping pieces to reveal his themes and sensitivities, with ample room for viewers to circle around and examine from multiple perspectives. Importantly, it's streamlined to avoid overwhelm – featuring just 15 sculptures from his total of 49.
The display kicks off with a grouping of his most deeply human and emotionally stirring works, sequenced to let visitors follow an imagined storyline: from the heavily expecting Pregnant Woman to the dazed young Woman with Shopping, gazing blankly while her infant looks up from inside her coat; the youthful Young Couple, whose postures hint at a strained romance; and the small, visibly unhappy middle-aged Spooning Couple.
After the initial mind-bending surprise – so huge! Or so tiny! – and the thrill of marveling at the craftsmanship, you're pulled into pondering the private worlds and histories of these figures. Some might feel a strong emotional pull. Stay a bit longer, and thoughts turn to the artistic techniques and illusions at play; the ways he creates these mental impacts. You see that his pursuit of realism isn't blind devotion but a calculated choice.
And this is the part most people miss: how Mueck's realism isn't just surface-level, but a tool to delve into our shared human psyche.
Subsequent sections explore Mueck's hidden flair for the absurd and surreal: a giant mask of a middle-aged man's face glaring from a shadowy room; a newborn-sized adult curled up in blankets; an elderly man squared off against a chicken at a table.
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The exhibition's centerpiece, showcased in a central chamber of the winding layout, is a gathering of colossal, snarling dogs, divided into rival groups on the brink of total mayhem. Entitled Havoc, this debut piece at AGNSW evokes Mark Antony's ominous declaration in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: “Cry ‘Havoc!’, and let slip the dogs of war.”
Visually, Havoc is the show's standout – not just due to the scale and stances of the dogs, but their dark-gray forms, dull and nearly all in shades of gray, except for crimson mouths, rosy tongues, and gleaming teeth. This presents Mueck to Australian viewers in a fresh light: stripped-down realism, with political undertones and full-throttle motion.
At first, it resembles a comic-book portrayal of aggression – but linger, and a growing discomfort sets in; observing the tense muscles in their limbs and snouts, exposed fangs, and even subtle signs of arousal, unease builds into real anxiety.
Nearby sits a smaller piece depicting an equally unsettling tableau: five men pinning down a hefty pig, straining with effort. Get close and squat down, and you spot one wielding a knife at the animal's neck. Like Havoc, this ironically named This Little Piggy stands apart in the exhibit: crudely fashioned, energetic, and biting in its commentary.
The final sculpture delivers a psychological twist: the earlier-mentioned elderly Couple Under an Umbrella, a seemingly innocent setup that's unavoidably tainted by the preceding works. Are they content in their partnership, or just accepting it? Is his grip on her arm loving, or simply a means of support for himself?
All at once, rethinking the show, you might conclude that even Mueck's earlier pieces aren't as sentimental as they appear. Perhaps they never were.
But wait – could this shift reveal a darker, more subversive side to Mueck's art that challenges our comfortable views? What do you think – does his work elevate everyday humanity or trap us in cheesy clichés? Share your thoughts in the comments below, and let's debate!
Ron Mueck: Encounter runs 6 December-12 April at Art Gallery of New South Wales, Naala Badu building
