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Modern Art maketh the man.
Feb. 4th, 2014 02:17 pmAbout ten years or so ago, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sesquipedality, myself and one or two others created the Order of Saint Lazarus. The Order were a bunch of dangerous diabolists based on Southwark, who hid their evil by pretending to be a bunch of chunky sweater-wearing, kumbyah-singing Anglicans – a bit like Tony Blair did in real life, really. As part of their ongoing mission to spread despair and misery the Order would do things like supporting an initiative to help the homeless come to terms with their situation through the medium of interpretative dance. Obviously the idea was the satirise the sort of utterly witless crap well-meaning arty types do on a regular basis, but to our disappointment I’m not sure how many people realised we were actually being satirical .
Anyway, I’m not much of a one for modern Art. I was once asked to leave the Cornerhouse Gallery in Manchester for loudly critiquing their fire extinguisher, and it’s not failed to escape my notice that when you go to a proper museum or gallery the bookshop is always on the way out, but if you go to see modern art the bookshop is always near the entrance and it’s crammed with tomes which claim to explain what pictures which don’t look like anything actually mean.
Despite this I’ve long held a certain interest in that flowering of art which emerged from the Wiemar republic represented by folks like Kandinsky, Gropius and Klee and so it was that I headed off to the Tate Modern the other day as they’ve got a Paul Klee exhibition on there at the moment. The Tate Modern is free to enter, but despite this upon arrival I was struck by the big signs requesting a ‘suggested donation’ of £4 on entry because blah blah funding the arts blah blah Tory cuts blah blah*, and then another quid for a map of the gallery. Further investigation led to the discovery that the Klee exhibition was another £16.50 to get in, and after a certain amount of heart-searching I decided that I might be interested in Weimar art but I’m not more than twenty quid’s worth of interested so I decided not to bother. Instead I decided just to take a turn around the free exhibitions.
The main space of the Tate Modern is the old Turbine Hall, but there wasn’t anything being displayed in it when I was there. I did briefly consider wandering round it loudly pontificating about how an empty art space invites the observer to fill it with the sort of creations that to them best exemplify art, so making everyone who visits it an artist in their own right. By this process of the artist becoming observer and the observer becoming artist you achieve the quintessence of art actually is, but I figured they probably get quite enough of that sort of crap as it is so I decided not to bother. Instead I wandered off around the rest of the place to see what art they had in store for me.
There were several free exhibitions. A small one by Tracey Eminem, which as far as I could make out was called something like I’m angry about Thatcher so I made a duvet and was as interesting as you'd expect a selection of anger-Thatcher duvets to be. There was a selection of photographs entitled “Harry Callahan Photographs**” which didn’t have single picture of Clint Eastwood in it, and an exhibition which examined “The idea of painting away from the traditional idea of applying paint to a canvas with a brush” which, to be honest, I didn’t get past the door of because I knew nothing they could show me would be more entertaining than the description.
There were some exhibits I liked, but in the main what I said at the start holds true – it’s just nigh impossible with a lot of modern art to tell the difference between serious art and me royally taking the mickey. Actually, now I think on it you can tell the difference. Take, for example, the sculpture of a tree carved out of a single, er, tree. The artist who did that appears to have got really rich and spent his time working his way through a succession of art groupies, which is annoying as all it indicates is that if you can do modern art with a straight face you’ll need to fight them off with a stick, but if you can’t they just say “It’s Dave messing about, ignore him”. Despite the finished artworks being indistinguishable, the intent of the artist appears to affect the reaction the art generates which is pretty meta when you think about it. And don’t get me started on the neon “AMERICA” sign which had been so covered with black paint that you couldn’t see any light or colour despite it being switched on. When I leave the lights on in our house when nobody can see them I get an earful from the she-David, but if someone does it in a gallery it’s a statement. There’s no justice.
Despite the fact that modern art doesn’t very little for me (the only modern art I’ve seen which totally did it for me was an exhibition by Anish Kapoor I saw the better part of twenty years ago which I wandered around being totally inspired to see the world in a different way and made me completely get the whole point of modern art. Unfortunately little enough of it seems to live up to that quality) I had a tremendous time. I got some ideas for the book, but more than that I couldn’t help but find the whole experience funny. Walls covered in random splodges, a series of photographs of ladies bottoms, some stuff which looked like it’d come out of the bottom of a hedge and all of it surrounded by people looking gosh-darn serious. I don't know how they managed to keep a straight face - perhaps the Tate sprays a dilute form of anti-Nitrous Oxide into the ventilation and I'm just immune to it, or something.
In the main the audience might be summarised as willowy blonde women in pashminas accompanied by serious-looking stubbled men ten years their senior, which gives me hope yet – I just need to practice my scowling and cut back on the giggling.
Finally after an hour or two I wandered off back to the station and home - and as I did so I passed a busker playing Paradise City so I stuck the recommended donation of £4 into his hat, figuring that yes, the Tate Modern are right that supporting art is a good idea, but on the other hand I reckon you're better off directly supporting something which is actually of recognisable merit.
*If you didn’t want “Tory Cuts” now, you shouldn’t have been such cheerleaders for the creation of the largest consumer credit bubble in recorded human history ten years ago, you dozy arty pillocks.
**Yes, yes, I know, but you try not making that joke.
sesquipedality, myself and one or two others created the Order of Saint Lazarus. The Order were a bunch of dangerous diabolists based on Southwark, who hid their evil by pretending to be a bunch of chunky sweater-wearing, kumbyah-singing Anglicans – a bit like Tony Blair did in real life, really. As part of their ongoing mission to spread despair and misery the Order would do things like supporting an initiative to help the homeless come to terms with their situation through the medium of interpretative dance. Obviously the idea was the satirise the sort of utterly witless crap well-meaning arty types do on a regular basis, but to our disappointment I’m not sure how many people realised we were actually being satirical .Anyway, I’m not much of a one for modern Art. I was once asked to leave the Cornerhouse Gallery in Manchester for loudly critiquing their fire extinguisher, and it’s not failed to escape my notice that when you go to a proper museum or gallery the bookshop is always on the way out, but if you go to see modern art the bookshop is always near the entrance and it’s crammed with tomes which claim to explain what pictures which don’t look like anything actually mean.
Despite this I’ve long held a certain interest in that flowering of art which emerged from the Wiemar republic represented by folks like Kandinsky, Gropius and Klee and so it was that I headed off to the Tate Modern the other day as they’ve got a Paul Klee exhibition on there at the moment. The Tate Modern is free to enter, but despite this upon arrival I was struck by the big signs requesting a ‘suggested donation’ of £4 on entry because blah blah funding the arts blah blah Tory cuts blah blah*, and then another quid for a map of the gallery. Further investigation led to the discovery that the Klee exhibition was another £16.50 to get in, and after a certain amount of heart-searching I decided that I might be interested in Weimar art but I’m not more than twenty quid’s worth of interested so I decided not to bother. Instead I decided just to take a turn around the free exhibitions.
The main space of the Tate Modern is the old Turbine Hall, but there wasn’t anything being displayed in it when I was there. I did briefly consider wandering round it loudly pontificating about how an empty art space invites the observer to fill it with the sort of creations that to them best exemplify art, so making everyone who visits it an artist in their own right. By this process of the artist becoming observer and the observer becoming artist you achieve the quintessence of art actually is, but I figured they probably get quite enough of that sort of crap as it is so I decided not to bother. Instead I wandered off around the rest of the place to see what art they had in store for me.
There were several free exhibitions. A small one by Tracey Eminem, which as far as I could make out was called something like I’m angry about Thatcher so I made a duvet and was as interesting as you'd expect a selection of anger-Thatcher duvets to be. There was a selection of photographs entitled “Harry Callahan Photographs**” which didn’t have single picture of Clint Eastwood in it, and an exhibition which examined “The idea of painting away from the traditional idea of applying paint to a canvas with a brush” which, to be honest, I didn’t get past the door of because I knew nothing they could show me would be more entertaining than the description.
There were some exhibits I liked, but in the main what I said at the start holds true – it’s just nigh impossible with a lot of modern art to tell the difference between serious art and me royally taking the mickey. Actually, now I think on it you can tell the difference. Take, for example, the sculpture of a tree carved out of a single, er, tree. The artist who did that appears to have got really rich and spent his time working his way through a succession of art groupies, which is annoying as all it indicates is that if you can do modern art with a straight face you’ll need to fight them off with a stick, but if you can’t they just say “It’s Dave messing about, ignore him”. Despite the finished artworks being indistinguishable, the intent of the artist appears to affect the reaction the art generates which is pretty meta when you think about it. And don’t get me started on the neon “AMERICA” sign which had been so covered with black paint that you couldn’t see any light or colour despite it being switched on. When I leave the lights on in our house when nobody can see them I get an earful from the she-David, but if someone does it in a gallery it’s a statement. There’s no justice.
Despite the fact that modern art doesn’t very little for me (the only modern art I’ve seen which totally did it for me was an exhibition by Anish Kapoor I saw the better part of twenty years ago which I wandered around being totally inspired to see the world in a different way and made me completely get the whole point of modern art. Unfortunately little enough of it seems to live up to that quality) I had a tremendous time. I got some ideas for the book, but more than that I couldn’t help but find the whole experience funny. Walls covered in random splodges, a series of photographs of ladies bottoms, some stuff which looked like it’d come out of the bottom of a hedge and all of it surrounded by people looking gosh-darn serious. I don't know how they managed to keep a straight face - perhaps the Tate sprays a dilute form of anti-Nitrous Oxide into the ventilation and I'm just immune to it, or something.
In the main the audience might be summarised as willowy blonde women in pashminas accompanied by serious-looking stubbled men ten years their senior, which gives me hope yet – I just need to practice my scowling and cut back on the giggling.
Finally after an hour or two I wandered off back to the station and home - and as I did so I passed a busker playing Paradise City so I stuck the recommended donation of £4 into his hat, figuring that yes, the Tate Modern are right that supporting art is a good idea, but on the other hand I reckon you're better off directly supporting something which is actually of recognisable merit.
*If you didn’t want “Tory Cuts” now, you shouldn’t have been such cheerleaders for the creation of the largest consumer credit bubble in recorded human history ten years ago, you dozy arty pillocks.
**Yes, yes, I know, but you try not making that joke.
