Does the Guggenheim rely on its name and architecture?

There’s no denying that the building itself, with Frank Gehry’s titanium waves shimmering beside the Nervión River, changed the destiny of Bilbao. The city flourished around it; there’s even a short documentary about this so-called “Guggenheim effect.” And I must say, their learning and outreach programmes are brilliant. But once inside, I couldn’t help but wondering if the museum depends too much on its own legend.

The journey began beautifully, though: El Anatsui’s metallic yet delicate sculptures greeted me. Those fluid tapestries of recycled bottle tops and aluminium that somehow feel both monumental and tender. A good start: soft, grand, and full of energy.

Then the mood flattened. Maybe the more art one sees, the harder it is to be surprised? Still, with all respect, much of what I saw felt overly commercial. Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Room is, of course, there. Where she doesn't? Forty-five seconds of shimmering lights and infinite selfies. I went in, mainly because my friends hadn’t experienced it, and I am, after all, a good friend. Elsewhere, installations leaned into the hyper-conceptual, the sort of intellectual elitism that leaves you nodding politely while thinking, what exactly am I looking at? I enjoy challenging, experimental work, but when the dialogue between viewer and art becomes one-sided, something’s missing.

Then there was a room dedicated to pop art, what can I say? Followed with a full second floor exhibition about Barbara Kruger, the same I saw for free at the Serpentine, and another one about Refik Anadol’s AI-driven pieces, which I’ve also encountered in London and Istanbul. Interesting, yes, but again familiar, repeating the circuit of blockbusters shows that circulate between global institutions like luxury brands.

And then there are the giants that never move, Richard Serra’s The Matter of Time, a labyrinth of colossal weathered steel curves that has inhabited the museum for nearly two decades. I first walked through it eighteen years ago, and it’s still there, humming with weight and silence. I understand it’s nearly impossible to store or rotate such enormous works, but its permanence says a lot: impressive, yes, but also symbolic of the Guggenheim’s own immobility, a museum that sometimes risks becoming a monument to itself. The Guggenheim’s building is famously deceptive, it appears enormous, but inside is a bit limited if you compare it with Tate Modern for example. Hosting monumental exhibitions means much of the museum’s permanent collection rarely sees the light of day. This is a recurring tension in contemporary museums: the blockbuster versus the archive. Bilbao’s Guggenheim, designed for visual drama, often feels trapped by its own architecture, rooms that serve the building’s sculptural flow more than the artworks themselves.

Thankfully, the end of my visit reminded me why I still love museums. Louise Bourgeois was there, magnificent and maternal, her giant spider rising with quiet power. She closed my journey just as El Anatsui had opened it, with emotion, materiality, and humanity. The Guggenheim remains a global icon, a triumph of cultural ambition. But inside, between the dazzling architecture and the repetition of safe, market-approved programming, something feels missing. A museum of this stature could dare more, dig deeper, and reflect the complexity of our time instead of reproducing the comfort of the familiar. Perhaps I’m becoming picky. Or perhaps, after all these years, I’m just asking the Guggenheim to be as bold on the inside as it already is on the outside.