The “Resources” section of Documenta’s website is a bit of a crapshoot. It offers, among other things, the cover of a book which Pierre Huyghe would like you to see, a twenty-minute video by Francis Alys, an Adorno text in German, and a video of the editor of Critical Inquiry pronouncing his lack of thoughts about Occupy. It’s a pile of information without the slightest hint of order, like an orphaned tumblr with too many editors; if you’re interested in a particular entry, there’s no way to find similar entries, no explanatory text, and no idea that you might actually want to know more. Enjoy Jurgen Hess’s minute-long thoughts on the political causes of famine? Then maybe you’ll enjoy Alexander Tarakhovsky’s metaphor of experience as skin. The whole production fetishizes the idea of insight at the expense of the actual knowledge and research from which it springs.
The worst bit came Monday: a post apparently written by Sanja Iveković, the Croatian artist who until recently was exhibiting in MoMA’s atrium, which outright plagiarizes from 12 pages worth of Wikipedia entries. It’s part of a work Iveković has in Documenta, entitled The Disobedient:
A press photograph published in the Hessische Volkswacht in April 1933 inspired the second part, The Disobedient (The Revolutionaries). The photo shows a Nazi officer and a donkey—fenced in with barbed wire—in front of a crowd on Kassel’s Opernplatz, across the street from Friedrichsplatz. The symbolic “concentration camp for stubborn citizens” was erected as a warning not to buy from Jews. Iveković’s installation in the Neue Galerie juxtaposes display cases filled with toy donkeys—the donkey being the symbol of the “beast of burden”—from private collections, one exemplar dating back to the time of World War I, with names of individuals who have resisted injustice and oppression in Nazi Germany and elsewhere in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
Iveković, it seems, wanted to produce a supporting text to put stories to the names; as a result, she kindly gives us this PDF. It is, quite literally, the first paragraph of the Wikipedia article on each person. In the section on Steve Biko, she actually left in Wikipedia’s footnote shortcode. Compare for yourself, first from Ivekovic’s PDF:
Amílcar Lopes da Costa Cabral (12 September 1924 – 20 January 1973) was a Guinea-Bissauan and Cape Verdean agricultural engineer, writer, thinker and politician. Also known by his nom de guerre Abel Djassi, Cabral led the nationalist movement of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde Islands and the ensuing war of independence in Guinea-Bissau. He was assassinated on 20 January 1973, about 8 months before Guinea-Bissau’s unilateral declaration of independence. From 1963 to his assassination in 1973, Cabral led the PAIGC’s guerrilla movement (in Portuguese Guinea) against the Portuguese colonialists, which evolved into one of most successful war of independence in African history
Amílcar Lopes da Costa Cabral (Portuguese pronunciation: [ɐˈmilkaɾ ˈlɔpɨʃ kɐˈbɾal]; 12 September 1924 – 20 January 1973) was a Guinea-Bissauan and Cape Verdean agricultural engineer, writer, and a nationalist thinker and politician. Also known by his nom de guerre Abel Djassi, Cabral led the nationalist movement of Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde Islands and the ensuing war of independence in Guinea-Bissau. He was assassinated on 20 January 1973, about 8 months before Guinea-Bissau’s unilateral declaration of independence.
…
From 1963 to his assassination in 1973, Cabral led the PAIGC’s guerrilla movement (in Portuguese Guinea) against the Portuguese colonialists, which evolved into one of most successful war of independence in African history.
We’ll say this: copying from Wikipedia is unacceptable in any field, and art is no exception. Even if we excuse the sheer laziness of it, or the arrogance of submitting this to perhaps the most respected art exhibition in the world, copying the text weakens the work: the reasons for Iveković’s inclusions could have been communicated more effectively in her own words. It is the sort of attention to detail which lies at the root of all good art, from the way Dan Walsh trims his paintbrushes to the specificity in Ryan Trecartin’s prop notes.
If Documenta, as it says in the first sentence of its own self-description, is “dedicated to artistic research”, it should throw this out entirely. This is bad art and worse research, and throws into question the entirely of their “Resources” section. A publicly-funded, academically-minded exhibition must hold itself to higher standards.

