Why, then, does it feel so lackluster?
Chihuly can work wonders with glass; no one is arguing with that. He has a strong record of innovation, as well as ambition and energy to burn. But under the self-induced pressure of ceaseless demand and a factory-style production, his work long ago fell into kitsch.
Chihuly no longer blows glass himself - he has teams of assistants for that - but he does make drawings. And so, as if to emphasize his own personal contribution to this show, almost the first thing we see is a display of 80 drawings arranged in a grid on a long, high wall.
These works, executed in an array of shiny and metallic paints, riff on floral themes in a brisk, colorful, splatter-adorned idiom that cries out "freedom," "joy," and "self-expression," but that is finally indistinguishable from the kind of pointless, desperate-to-please art you see at most community art fairs.
Many have Chihuly's zigzagging signature scrawled prominently across the lower half. There have been artists - Miró, for instance - who have made great play incorporating signatures into their compositions in novel and arresting ways. But here, the Chihuly trademark feels arbitrary and intrusive - and not a little preening.
To see the wall drawings, you pass under Chihuly's "Persian Ceiling": clear glass panels that support a cornucopia of marine-inspired shapes and trinkets in luminous colors, casting patterns of golden light against the walls immediately beneath. It sounds better than it looks. It's also, unfortunately, an abbreviated version of a piece that has been installed more extensively - and impressively - in Salt Lake City and London, among other places.
The same can be said of several other installations here, reminding us that Chihuly's enterprise is vast and unsentimental, with clients to gratify all over the world.
