Last night I went to a party on a Peckham car park rooftop.
Everyone was there.
It was an art exhibition opening you see,
And it was a perfect evening: the sun bore down on all of us,
blessed ones.
The Champagne and Campari was overflowing and
a Charlie Parker inspired band strummed in the corner,
setting the mood.
All the boys wore stripy t-shirts, and
boating shoes with rolled-up slacks.
And when I looked around all I could see was
face upon face with
cool dark shades attached.
A sea of Ray-bans;
those glasses from another time,
another politics,
an earlier life.
Everyone was looking at everyone else,
like a mass of pigeons brooding and
pecking at one another,
but like birds their movements
were slow and semi-static,
as though from the side.
Taking me in, and me taking them in.
Until suddenly you realised the undercurrent.
Of disdain, of disinterest, of self-interest.
No one was good enough to look at for too long.
Girls strutted and tossed their messy hair
from side to side,
emaciated and tanned from a diet of
cigarettes, gin and expensive holidays.
A little later,
and Martin Creed (remember? The Turner prize winner)
and his band took to the stage.
They sang a song whose only lyrics
were every number from one to
one hundred.
This was followed by another linguistic feat:
called 'Fuck You'.
A cool evening breeze descended upon us all,
drunk but still clucking, still preening,
still talking nonsense.
A girl, possibly the curator,
made a speech over the tenoy about how lucky
they were to have their corporate sponsors,
and how important it was to use such diverse spaces
for the display of art.
Good for 'culture' in London.
And then I thought of what was going on down below.
About Peckham Rye High Street:
the smell of the yams and the giant snails
being sold in the yards of bare-windowed shops.
The African braids lying straggling and
abandoned on the pavement.
I thought of their realness,
their struggles, but then our superficiality:
only a stone's throw away.
Our pretense to the past.
To 'cool'.
Earlier we had gone into MacDonalds'
to use the loo.
Hundreds of black families filled the tables
eating supper.
Whilst at the top of their local multi-storey
Nicholas Serota and Jay Joplin
ate free salmon canapes and quenched
their thirst on Campari,
so genorously donated
by our corporate sponsors.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
'Necessary Illusions': A Response
It was on a dank, windy and miserable Sunday that I stumbled hung-over along London’s Southbank to see ‘Necessary Illusions’: Central Saint Martins’ MA Fine Art interim show at the Bargehouse in Oxo Tower Wharf. A friend involved in the project had asked me to give a written response to the show, and I was curious to see how a group of emerging artists and curators had responded to the raw and eerie space of the Bargehouse – an emotive “Art Deco edifice”[1] that stands slightly back from the cultural thoroughfare of the Southbank parade.
As a recent art graduate saturated with the theoretical rhetoric of Goldsmiths’ College and its ilk, I struggle with notions of criticality, self-reflexivity and the problem of how to write about art, especially art only half-made. The words which follow will attempt to describe my sense of the CSM show, to act as a witness statement, and a subjective account of my mental and physical interaction – my spiritual encounter if you like – with the ‘Necessary Illusions’ exhibition.
Despite the cold and hostile surrounds of the Bargehouse, the first room of the exhibition gave the impression that this was to be an exciting and ambitious show. Several brightly coloured human-sized tubes hung suspended from the ceiling, accompanied by a board of photos documenting a performance piece by Ruben Montini that had used these weird props on the opening night. The photos depicted assorted performers stripped naked bar these fabric tubes draped over their bodies. Much like the strange remnants left behind from a Paul McCarthy performance, one could discern the recent occurrence of an event despite the industrial gloom. It was to be the first of many pieces, I realised, that implicitly sought to challenge a hierarchy of power.
In the corner stood a sculpture by Antonis Tzikas; a conical jumble of found objects and discarded rubbish, a hurricane rendered motionless and in fierce opposition to the performance piece. Later I was to find a similar sculpture by another artist, Kirsten Linning, in an upstairs room, both works igniting ideas of transition and of flux: of art still in its emergent stages, under construction; a concept that echoes behind the curatorial foundations of ‘Necessary Illusions’.
Moving onwards and up the first flight of uneven cement stairs, a cacophony of sights and sounds bombarded me, and with difficulty I tried to look at all these fragments individually and with a critical eye. Work after work maintained an experiential element: one had to walk through or around, listen in or watch. There was a significant emphasis on the idea of the observer and the observed. Films various showed supermarket shoppers purchasing groceries, or depicted bird’s eye views of Indian streets, or watched people facing one another blankly, as in the four screen projection by Josephine Reichert. I felt that this focus on observation made the viewer more aware of their own actions in this chilly space; how they were looking, how they appeared to others while they looked, and ultimately: how their look affected the work and its meaning.
Seven itineraries had been created by the MA Critical Writing and Curatorial Practice students from Chelsea College, the purpose of which was to suggest alternative journeys through the exhibition according to particular illusory meanings such as ‘modern myths’, ‘logocentrism’ or ‘architecture’. I appreciated the ambition of this task – the sheer audacity of trying to classify artwork-in-the-making according to these huge conceptual perimeters – and felt it an intelligent way of recognising the borderless intellectual confines which influence the making of art. I also liked the way these guides proposed different journeys into and around the Bargehouse space, whilst highlighting the political and creative connections between seemingly disparate artworks. It seemed that the Chelsea students, like me, struggled with the popular insinuation that the role of curatorial practice and art writing is to impose meaning or a structure of thought onto a visual artwork. They had responded sensitively with these tentative pathways through the art space, and had focused upon the seven alternative “fictitious constructs” as a “necessary illusion”[2] that highlighted the ephemeral nature of the show.
The ‘Necessary Illusions’ exhibition problematizes the plight of every emerging artist: how to make work despite the perpetual crescendo of political and aesthetic dogma. Once upon a time I believed that all art must have a message and that it should instruct in some way, helping us to realise something new about the world. Inquiring exhibitions such as this one counteract that belief. They brazenly recognise that art is much more than any imposed meaning, that it is something deeper, soulful, and more penetrating. Words and language are like the echoes that ricochet off the hard concrete walls of the Bargehouse; empty, yet always there in order to challenge and disarm us from experiencing the art in any pure or uncorrupted way.
In other words, I felt that it was the theoretical content of the itineraries – their unabashed failure to find a grand narrative and an overarching passage through the exhibition – that ultimately reinforced the strength of the works in and of themselves.
As I walked back along the Southbank, my thoughts turned to the piece I would shortly be writing about the show. ‘How does one accurately write about an art exhibition?’ I thought, ‘and how does one convey in words the subjective experience of walking through an art space?’ I would have to accept, I realised, that my piece could be nothing more than another illusory representation of the experience of walking through, yet another alternative to navigating the ideas and the work.
But that was probably enough, for now.
[1] From An Architecture of Illusory Meaning, a Necessary Illusions Itinerary
[2] http://criticalism.org/news/necessary-illusions
As a recent art graduate saturated with the theoretical rhetoric of Goldsmiths’ College and its ilk, I struggle with notions of criticality, self-reflexivity and the problem of how to write about art, especially art only half-made. The words which follow will attempt to describe my sense of the CSM show, to act as a witness statement, and a subjective account of my mental and physical interaction – my spiritual encounter if you like – with the ‘Necessary Illusions’ exhibition.
Despite the cold and hostile surrounds of the Bargehouse, the first room of the exhibition gave the impression that this was to be an exciting and ambitious show. Several brightly coloured human-sized tubes hung suspended from the ceiling, accompanied by a board of photos documenting a performance piece by Ruben Montini that had used these weird props on the opening night. The photos depicted assorted performers stripped naked bar these fabric tubes draped over their bodies. Much like the strange remnants left behind from a Paul McCarthy performance, one could discern the recent occurrence of an event despite the industrial gloom. It was to be the first of many pieces, I realised, that implicitly sought to challenge a hierarchy of power.
In the corner stood a sculpture by Antonis Tzikas; a conical jumble of found objects and discarded rubbish, a hurricane rendered motionless and in fierce opposition to the performance piece. Later I was to find a similar sculpture by another artist, Kirsten Linning, in an upstairs room, both works igniting ideas of transition and of flux: of art still in its emergent stages, under construction; a concept that echoes behind the curatorial foundations of ‘Necessary Illusions’.
Moving onwards and up the first flight of uneven cement stairs, a cacophony of sights and sounds bombarded me, and with difficulty I tried to look at all these fragments individually and with a critical eye. Work after work maintained an experiential element: one had to walk through or around, listen in or watch. There was a significant emphasis on the idea of the observer and the observed. Films various showed supermarket shoppers purchasing groceries, or depicted bird’s eye views of Indian streets, or watched people facing one another blankly, as in the four screen projection by Josephine Reichert. I felt that this focus on observation made the viewer more aware of their own actions in this chilly space; how they were looking, how they appeared to others while they looked, and ultimately: how their look affected the work and its meaning.
Seven itineraries had been created by the MA Critical Writing and Curatorial Practice students from Chelsea College, the purpose of which was to suggest alternative journeys through the exhibition according to particular illusory meanings such as ‘modern myths’, ‘logocentrism’ or ‘architecture’. I appreciated the ambition of this task – the sheer audacity of trying to classify artwork-in-the-making according to these huge conceptual perimeters – and felt it an intelligent way of recognising the borderless intellectual confines which influence the making of art. I also liked the way these guides proposed different journeys into and around the Bargehouse space, whilst highlighting the political and creative connections between seemingly disparate artworks. It seemed that the Chelsea students, like me, struggled with the popular insinuation that the role of curatorial practice and art writing is to impose meaning or a structure of thought onto a visual artwork. They had responded sensitively with these tentative pathways through the art space, and had focused upon the seven alternative “fictitious constructs” as a “necessary illusion”[2] that highlighted the ephemeral nature of the show.
The ‘Necessary Illusions’ exhibition problematizes the plight of every emerging artist: how to make work despite the perpetual crescendo of political and aesthetic dogma. Once upon a time I believed that all art must have a message and that it should instruct in some way, helping us to realise something new about the world. Inquiring exhibitions such as this one counteract that belief. They brazenly recognise that art is much more than any imposed meaning, that it is something deeper, soulful, and more penetrating. Words and language are like the echoes that ricochet off the hard concrete walls of the Bargehouse; empty, yet always there in order to challenge and disarm us from experiencing the art in any pure or uncorrupted way.
In other words, I felt that it was the theoretical content of the itineraries – their unabashed failure to find a grand narrative and an overarching passage through the exhibition – that ultimately reinforced the strength of the works in and of themselves.
As I walked back along the Southbank, my thoughts turned to the piece I would shortly be writing about the show. ‘How does one accurately write about an art exhibition?’ I thought, ‘and how does one convey in words the subjective experience of walking through an art space?’ I would have to accept, I realised, that my piece could be nothing more than another illusory representation of the experience of walking through, yet another alternative to navigating the ideas and the work.
But that was probably enough, for now.
[1] From An Architecture of Illusory Meaning, a Necessary Illusions Itinerary
[2] http://criticalism.org/news/necessary-illusions
Monday, 25 January 2010
Art Comment! - the experiment...
So, at the weekend I finally decided it was time to actualise a project I've been imagining for some time called 'Art Comment!'. The idea was to make a series of two minute films which would consist of me sprinting around London and standing around outside art galleries attempting to pretend to be a critic. Sort of like a critique of the critics... I wanted it to be quite impromptu and experimental, and so hadn't scripted these short sequences.
The idea for 'Art Comment!' stemmed from an interest in how art is discussed in the mass media, and consequently how/why the public are encouraged to see certain exhibitions etc. over others. I wanted to attempt to make my own sort of mini art reportage, and see if I could ever find a place for myself as an acclaimed art orator like Andrew Graham-Dixon or Matthew Collings or Brian Sewell (note: why are they all men??). In addition, I wanted to try and make sense of the meaning of art (!!!) in my own head, namely by focussing on what was happening in these galleries, while being brutally personal about myself and my own feelings, and then also looking at what was on the front page of the newspaper on that particular day. I suppose I was hoping to sort of reveal things in a new way; a grand attempt I know!
We (my brother Joe and I) began in the Southbank Centre, moving on to Trafalgar Square where a protest was going on. The protest was being made by amateur photographers under the slogan 'We are photographers, not terrorists'. From there we gadded over to a pub in Russell Square before heading to the British Museum. The journey finished back at the Southbank Centre where we had tickets to see Circus Klezmer which was part of the London Mime Festival. Although I'm embarrassed of the short films we did make, I feel that they were vital experiments for me all the same. I found that I lost all notion of why I wanted to do this project or what the ultimate point was as soon as the camera was on me, and I struggled to keep going throughout the day. Nevertheless, as a first attempt and as a series of experiments I hope that they might prove useful in helping me find my voice.
Please go to the YouTube links above to view some of these attempts...
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
How to be an Artist in a Material World
Must art be shocking to be good? Walking around the Jeff Koons’ exhibit at Tate Modern’s recent ‘Pop Life’ exhibition I found myself pondering this long-standing question. Koons’ multi-million dollar artist room, ‘Made in Heaven’, is comprised of a series of canvases and sculptures which immortalize the artist and his wife – the Italian porn star and politician known as La Cicciolina – having sex.
Possibly more unnerving than Koons’ facial expression is the fact that the Tate, an internationally renowned arts institution, has deemed such art culturally significant for our time. In more ways than one the ‘Pop Life: Art in a Material World’ exhibition leaves a bitter after-taste. Considering that the buzz words of 2009 were ‘recession’ and ‘the climate crisis’, the fragility of the ‘material world’ is more present than ever in our minds. Yet as emerging creatives, we are all too aware that art’s significance is still founded on economic value. This is exacerbated by our tireless completion of funding applications and eagerness to work for free in galleries and performance venues; we are entering a culture industry that places money-making above creative ingenuity.
To shock is not enough anymore. Art in possession of the ‘shock factor’ has lost its panache if it finds itself in a cordoned-off ‘over-18’s only’ room in the Tate Modern. The concept of ‘shock’ in art is exactly what must be questioned and contradicted if we are to achieve any creative credibility now.
But have I been too quick to judge? Is ‘Made in Heaven’ something more than cynical self-merchandising or sheer bravado? Perhaps, after all, Koons’ enigma lies at the heart of his success. It has been said that the artist deliberately rejects hidden meaning in his work, preferring to make grand statements such as “I don’t believe in judgements” and “I believe in the intensity of life”[1]. As he mockingly uses these empty profundities and adopts the quintessential rôle of ‘artiste’, he emphasizes the relentless struggle for meaning in contemporary art. Possibly this is exactly the kind of artist’s mentality we should strive to have: part charlatan, part mystery. We think we can see what Koons has to offer, but in the obviousness of ‘Made in Heaven’ lies the suggestive idea that: “the greater a chameleon something is, the greater its possibilities”[2]. The brazen banality of the artworks emphasize this point: there must be more to art than this.
The unsung hero is Koons’ ex-wife La Cicciolina. Not only is she unofficially credited with establishing one of Europe’s first green parties, but she used her overt sexuality in 1987 to gain a seat in the notoriously patriarchal Italian parliament. Claiming “I am a combative woman”, she offered to have sex with Saddam Hussein if he agreed to free European hostages during the Gulf war in the early 90s.
Ultimately, Koons and Cicciolina inspire a new question: for creative and financial success in these times, is it necessary to lose one’s morals and embrace your market?
Possibly more unnerving than Koons’ facial expression is the fact that the Tate, an internationally renowned arts institution, has deemed such art culturally significant for our time. In more ways than one the ‘Pop Life: Art in a Material World’ exhibition leaves a bitter after-taste. Considering that the buzz words of 2009 were ‘recession’ and ‘the climate crisis’, the fragility of the ‘material world’ is more present than ever in our minds. Yet as emerging creatives, we are all too aware that art’s significance is still founded on economic value. This is exacerbated by our tireless completion of funding applications and eagerness to work for free in galleries and performance venues; we are entering a culture industry that places money-making above creative ingenuity.
To shock is not enough anymore. Art in possession of the ‘shock factor’ has lost its panache if it finds itself in a cordoned-off ‘over-18’s only’ room in the Tate Modern. The concept of ‘shock’ in art is exactly what must be questioned and contradicted if we are to achieve any creative credibility now.
But have I been too quick to judge? Is ‘Made in Heaven’ something more than cynical self-merchandising or sheer bravado? Perhaps, after all, Koons’ enigma lies at the heart of his success. It has been said that the artist deliberately rejects hidden meaning in his work, preferring to make grand statements such as “I don’t believe in judgements” and “I believe in the intensity of life”[1]. As he mockingly uses these empty profundities and adopts the quintessential rôle of ‘artiste’, he emphasizes the relentless struggle for meaning in contemporary art. Possibly this is exactly the kind of artist’s mentality we should strive to have: part charlatan, part mystery. We think we can see what Koons has to offer, but in the obviousness of ‘Made in Heaven’ lies the suggestive idea that: “the greater a chameleon something is, the greater its possibilities”[2]. The brazen banality of the artworks emphasize this point: there must be more to art than this.
The unsung hero is Koons’ ex-wife La Cicciolina. Not only is she unofficially credited with establishing one of Europe’s first green parties, but she used her overt sexuality in 1987 to gain a seat in the notoriously patriarchal Italian parliament. Claiming “I am a combative woman”, she offered to have sex with Saddam Hussein if he agreed to free European hostages during the Gulf war in the early 90s.
Ultimately, Koons and Cicciolina inspire a new question: for creative and financial success in these times, is it necessary to lose one’s morals and embrace your market?
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Does the world need another writer? Another artist? Another struggling poet? Does the world need me? These are the kind of redundant questions I'm asking now, whilst in my frustration at relentless job searching, writing application after application, and getting nowhere. 'Do I want this job anyway?' I keep asking myself. 'Or should I not just disappear off abroad and find work on a barge/kibbutz/refugee camp?'
It has dawned on me that it is almost impossible not to be overtly self-aware in England. Everywhere I look I'm being encouraged to strive - to strive for beauty, thinness, fun, friends, the job of my dreams, the holiday of my dreams, the boyfriend of my dreams etc. etc.
Watching Channel 4 news coverage last night of the earthquake in Haiti is numbing. How do we take this information in? The fact that possibly 100,000 people have been killed. The fact that no aid is getting there quick enough, and the fact that the Americans are already discussing this as an opportunity to improve their waning status on the world stage. The late Harold Pinter, in his Nobel Prize speech, spoke big words: words such as 'conscience' and 'social morality'. He said we had forgotten the need to support one another. But who is in charge to ensure that this need is met?
And in the midst of all this I put the washing out on the radiators and mop the kitchen floor and listen to Florence and the Machine playing on Xfm. How can you relate from worlds apart? How can I feel more useful? That is a selfish question, surely.
It has dawned on me that it is almost impossible not to be overtly self-aware in England. Everywhere I look I'm being encouraged to strive - to strive for beauty, thinness, fun, friends, the job of my dreams, the holiday of my dreams, the boyfriend of my dreams etc. etc.
Watching Channel 4 news coverage last night of the earthquake in Haiti is numbing. How do we take this information in? The fact that possibly 100,000 people have been killed. The fact that no aid is getting there quick enough, and the fact that the Americans are already discussing this as an opportunity to improve their waning status on the world stage. The late Harold Pinter, in his Nobel Prize speech, spoke big words: words such as 'conscience' and 'social morality'. He said we had forgotten the need to support one another. But who is in charge to ensure that this need is met?
And in the midst of all this I put the washing out on the radiators and mop the kitchen floor and listen to Florence and the Machine playing on Xfm. How can you relate from worlds apart? How can I feel more useful? That is a selfish question, surely.
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