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It's not that we don't love exceedingly formal, beautiful work, (which this is) but rather that if one isn't feeling it, it comes off as cloying, precocious, oversaccharine sentiment. The bedsheet forts of childhood run wantonly romantic on the bones of youth raised on diets of contemporary art fresh daily. A type of academic formalism that - for whatever reason - European institutions crave to fill their spaces with so much stuff that looks like art, familiar beauty, so of course there is a performance. And sticks tied together. So totally earnestly beautiful that one feels like a curmudgeon for thinking otherwise.