Tag Archives: exhibition

Dec6

Dark Knight or Dark Art? Andy Hope’s 1930 Comic Visions

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I am standing under a giant billboard for the Dark Knight DVD release. The poster is faded, and bits of it are torn. Everyone I know has seen it. I gaze up, my lips parting momentarily from my paper coffee cup. I cock my head to the left, a grimace spreading on my face, and I already feel critical.
You see, I have a special relationship with comic books. Childhood memories of summer holidays always smelt like sunscreen, sea salt, and paper. Dark ink on cheap pages, small speech bubbles and one-liners, fast action without action. In these pages, characters were living more in a square box than others have lived in their entire lives.
I remember coming out of the sea, running towards my towel (held on the sand by four large rocks, one on each corner), digging in the beach bag and bringing the latest comic book under me. The tips of my hair would drip on the page, making the ink run, the story coming to life. I remember quiet afternoons, when everyone had a quiet siesta; everyone but me and the crickets: I read, they sang. Of course, then I was too young to know how to read; but that did not matter. I knew that something important was happening in those pages, and that filled me with a thrill that I can still feel on my fingertips.

I grew up watching He-Man and She-Ra, reading Duck Tales, hunting for the latest issue of Xmen, Superman, and even Aquaman books. I think that the fond memories I have of these novels might be why I am so aware of the recent comic book-to-screen flood. Different Spidermen, Supermen, X-Men, Avengers, and well, Batmen are jumping in their Lycra (or leather) bodysuits, and fly (on a jet or with a cape) over the city skyline and to the top of the Box Office.
Some stay true to the original; some deviate. For me, the value is not necessarily on how loyal they remain to the actual story of the comic book; it is about the comic book feel that they carry with them on the big screen.
This reminded me of the adopted the name Andy Hope 1930 as he considered the year vital to the main elements of his work: the rise of the comic book to a mass medium and the abandonment of suprematism and Russian Constructivism.
Hope 1930 is known for his iconography, combining comic books, science fiction, mythology, history, pop culture, and literature in his work with bold use of brush strokes and colours. In the Medley Tour exhibition, he tried his own superhero talent, attempting to manipulate time:throughout the exhibition he revisits his past work, and identifies the path of his technique, deconstructing his work and working backwards in order to move forwards.
He uses familiar themes like the black masks from his depiction of Robin Dostoyevsky; the woman’s hairstyles from his paintings of Hollywood starlets; and the dark shapes that accompany the majority of his past work, to trace his journey through his work.
He also built an actual batcave inside the exhibition, referencing the classic Bruce Wayne hideaway, constructed with a playfulness that reminded me of my childhood view of the comic book world.
I look at the poster again. Anne Hathaway as Catwoman. I sigh. It starts raining, and as I begin walking again, I decide to clear my head from preconceptions, and go and watch the movie with an open mind.
To the Batmobile!

Love,

G

Nov19

A Family at Wartime

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I don’t like war movies. The closest I have been to watching a full movie about wartime is the Sound of Music, and even in that, I hated the part where Rolfe turned out to be a Nazi, trampled over Liesl’s heart, and almost robbed the Von Trap family of their freedom.

You see, I dread the thought of a war, and not in the war is bad-peace is good-let’s all sit in front of a campfire holding hands and sing cumbaya kind of way. I find it dreadful because I think that it is the perfect setting for the worst kind of human nature to break free. Yes, the tactical moves, and fights, and war casualties are awful enough, but what makes my skin crawl are accounts of ‘normal’ people doing despicable acts during these times.
From medical trials on prisoners to making furniture out of human skin, and from countless tales of betrayal to the dehumanising nature of power, wartime comes to show you that the worst kind of crimes can be committed outside of the battlefield.
This is why I found the Imperial War Museum’s ‘a Family at Wartime’ so heartwarming. The exhibition, fantastically curated in the far left corner of the ground floor, is a metaphor for all the good that shines through the human evil. Each family member stands for different ways that people in Britain (and I assume throughout the world) made the best out of the worst, made life liveable and saw the everyday as another day that their heart kept beating.

The exhibition is centred on the Allpress family who lived in Stockwell, where every member played a minuscule, yet important role in the war, having to cope with rationing, evacuation, war work and events such as the London Blitz and VE Day that shaped everyday life and the story of a nation.

The exhibition features a model house of the Allpress family home, a family tree diagram, photos and interviews, as well as recreations of the era billboards, settings, iconic propaganda posters and films.

Visitors can also get in a replica of an Anderson shelter, scan the airwaves for radio shows from the archives, and see a range of interactive exhibits that we’re really popular with the little ones (yes, and me…).

However, the show stopper has to be the corridor that leads to the exit. On your left, a map of the area with marks on the bombing sites, explains the different levels of destruction that these metal cones of death caused. On the right wall, you will find paintings from the wartime, that literally paint a picture of overcoming terror by unity.

A few steps down and I am in the specially constructed gift shop, and I want to buy everything. The whole space is reminiscent of a home from that time, with vintage games, cushions, and cookbooks from the war.

I leave the museum with a bag of sweets. As I sit on the park bench outside, I open the bag, munch down a couple of jellies, and gaze at the giant cannons in the middle of the courtyard. I wonder if we learned. I wonder if we ever will.

Love,

G

Oct25

RetroARTive: a White Hole by Sarah Lucas with Rohan Wealleans

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It seems that I am always a step behind Sarah Lucas. It’s the wet footprints on the wooden floor that let me know that someone was in the house, barefoot, wondering around -then the footsteps end not on in front of a door or a window, but on a brick wall; she either passed through it, or just disappeared into thin air.

I always catch her work at the Situation gallery at the transition stage between old and new. I walk around the room as the new plans are drafted, the new work is coming in, the old work standing still before being moved out of sight, out of display. The air smells of change, of anticipation, of something that is not exhausted yet has to be revived.
The last time I went, I saw her collaboration with Rohan Wealleans. The space was very different from Rose Bush. The artist’s viewpoint of the same subject was very different as well. Lucas hints- Wealleans shows.
The wallpaper was different, as a layer of Wealleans’s pictures covered Lucas’s previous images with vaginas encrusted with patellidae; indeed, the whole room was adorned with hanging patellidae, giving it a truly beautiful, if a bit unsettling, underwater feeling. The references to genitalia, femininity, nature and the sea world were done by joining a social with an aesthetic commentary, making the crude beautiful, in a way that walked the line without stepping on either sides.

I am now outside of the gallery, looking at front door, wondering what is waiting for me inside. Time to follow the wet footsteps.

Love,

G

Oct24

I’ll Be Your Sister: Sculpting Contradictions by Thomas Houseago at Hauser and Wirth

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Taking things out of proportion; magnifying them; exaggerating; why are you focusing so much on this? Don’t you think you are overreacting? Complicating things; simplifying them; it is not that simple; it always was.
It is all a matter of perspective. Experiences seem important to us, because they are most likely our experiences. We obsess because the things that make up our obsessions are things that we are obsessed about.
I sometimes overthink things; I am walking to the bus stop, and I suddenly become aware that I am biting the inside of my bottom lip, I am frowning, my eyes focus on a spot in the horizon that has not formed yet. I am thinking of 50 things at once, and there’s a common connection, a thread running through all of them, hiding under them, a complex concept in a simplified setting.

As I am standing in front of Thomas Houseago’s work at Hauser and Wirth, I can not help but draw all these paralells. You see, Houseago is a sculptor of contradiction. With an elaborate artistic language, his pieces are mysterious yet brutally straightforward. The surfaces have a seemingly unfinished surface that is done in a sophisticated manner.

His monumental figures, relief wall panels and abstract, columnar lamps are scattered around the two gallery spaces, creating a feeling of being in a different world altogether. It is all about perspective.

His works have equal parts of a menacing and a welcoming nature, a type of eerie and ethereal glow that reminded me of a moment in Prometheus, that split second where the world hang at a balance between the Creator and David.

Houseago doesn’t hide what others would regard imperfections; instead, he exposes the structural components. The artist’s movements remain as handprints, trails on the sculpture’s surface, on the giant’s muscles, on the person’s life.

Houseago’s panels look unrefined and fractured to the point of deconstruction, and this is where their beauty lies. The unrefined; the fractured; the importance of the gigantic structure because of the perspective, the exaggeration of what looks simple but is not.

And like Houseago, we are all sculptors of contradictions; sculptors of perspective, sculpting the everyday with what we are given. Events are your material, the day is your sculpture.

Love,

G

Oct22

Meeting Six Robots Named Paul

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A mechanical eye is looking at me; I stand still. My breathing changes, my chest rises, and I find myself looking back at the small device as its motorized gaze is tracing details of my face. It stops, looks at me straight in the eye for a second that lasts a bit more than that. Then, just like that, its gaze rushes back down, to a piece of paper where its lifeless hand doodles what it just saw with a biro pen, and I find myself letting out a breath I did not know I was holding in.
I have always been fascinated with portraits, with the ability to capture something more than the image; to catch a glimpse of what lies under the artist’s paint, what hides behind the sitter’s eyes, with the light and the pixels and the ink and the hand that held the brush or clicked on the shutter, how much of it was translated on the portrait, how much of it is projected by the viewer.
And here I am, sitting in front of Paul, one of the 6 robots in the NEO Bankside gallery. Paul is the robotic alter ego of Patrick Tresset, the child between his artistic streak and his IT skills. The space has a quirkiness that is both unsettling and inviting; on the walls, Paul’s work is hanging in rows, covering the white surfaces with glimpses of faces he has seen in the past week. There are 5 desks, each equipped with a Paul on it. The sitter sits on a chair, and after signalling that he is ready, the Pauls get into action.
The result is a sensory symphony: the sounds of the biros digging in the paper, the mechanical movement as Paul turns his gaze from the sitter to his work, the sight of 5 desks drawing by themselves a subject that stands with a steely, yet unsure pose.
The portraits were booked solid throughout the week, but thankfully the 6th Paul worked on a drop-in basis. Left in the corner while his siblings were scribbling away, he looked like the younger, more sensitive brother of a futuristic family.
I went 20 minutes before the gallery opened to ensure a seat in front of him. Inside, a woman wearing a strange costume had her portrait done by the 5 Pauls as a part of an art project. She was wearing a mask covered with doll heads. This day is getting curiouser and curiouser.
The door opened, I walked in, sat down, and looked straight ahead. I did not expect to be self-aware in front of Paul, yet when he woke up from his electronic slumber and looked at me in a quizzical manner, I found myself tensing up. It is interesting how we react when we feel observed; even from the mechanical eye.
30 minutes later, Paul was scribbling his signature. I could not believe what was in front of me. You see, in my opinion, his work, my portrait contained something more than a depiction; it contains a moment. It has an element of me as a sitter, but also of how Paul saw me. I looked at Paul, and I found myself frowning, as if I wanted to say something, unsure what is was and who would I say it to.

I caught up with Patrick Tresset, who explained to me that this project was born when he saw his passion for drawing fading away; he then turned to his IT background to seek creativity from a traditionally non-creative outlet. He created a software that would draw in the same style he did, and Paul was born.

I take my portrait, go out, and realising that I forgot my umbrella, I cover it with my coat. I look back, and a woman in now sitting in the drop-in station, as his hand is scribbling furiously on the paper.

‘Goodbye Paul’, I say, and then walk out on the rain, feeling the drops on my skin waking me up from a dream of the future.

Love,

G

 

Oct19

Found Art Found: John Stezaker’s Deutsche Borse Photography Prize

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I am in Costa, and Claire Maguire‘s Sword and Shield in playing on the speakers In the top left corner. ‘And we don’t speak, so we’re left in constant silence’. I reach over to grab my notebook, and as I take it out of my bag, it flips open, and the Deutsche Borse photography Prize brochure falls on the floor. ‘I’m not afraid, of danger in the dark’. I flip it open, and as I take my first sip of the scorching hot hazelnut latte, I realise I am squinting, trying to remember a constant thought that run through me when I was in the exhibition. ‘You have the shield, I’ll take the sword’. I hope John Stezaker wins, I whisper, and I open a new safari tab to google who won the award.

The Deutsche Borse Photography Prize rewards a living photographer for a body of work that made a significant contribution to European photography within the period of a year. The photographers this year were Pieter Hugo from South Africa, Rinko Kawauchi from Japan, Christopher Williams from the United States, and John Stezaker from the United Kingdom.

You see, I had a soft spot for John Stezaker‘s work from the first moment I saw it. I was absent-mindedly leafing through a magazine, when I stumbled on one of his pictures. I stopped on the page, my eyes focusing on the page, my fingers touching the surface as if I was expecting it to have a different texture. His work has a genuinely remarkable power that is hard to explain. It almost seems that his effortless technique is a result of a pair of scissors, a tube of glue and a bunch of photocopies. But come a step closer; look again; look at the precision, the method, the combination, the duality, the thought behind it.

Of course, Stezaker had stiff competition for the award. Pieter Hugo‘s work had a visceral quality to it, a strength that was communicated by the steely determination in his subjects’ eyes and the destruct that they had to cause in their physical landscape. He took pictures of the dumping grounds for technological and industrial waste on the outskirts of Ghana, and portraits of the young slum-dwellers that survive through the processing and burning of the discarded material.

Rinko Kawauchi on the other hand examined the mundane through a lens that transforms it into extraordinary. She explored themes of life, death, and everything in between with a soft palette and a range of editing techniques.

Christopher Williams showcased images of objects like cameras, models, vehicles and other technical apparatus with a clear reference to the advertising world, and an overarching theme of photography as a form of reality.

So, why was I supporting Stezaker? First of all, I found the idea that a person that has not taken a single of the pictures he is exhibiting but still is considered for a photography award extremely interesting. You also know my love for found art, and the depiction of dualities through different mediums; and that is exactly what he is doing: he conveys a new meaning by reconstructing the picture. He is redefining its purpose instead of creating it. He toys around with form, format and the definition of art.

A few seconds later I see the article announcing the winner. Stezaker got the prize. I take another gulp of my (still hot) latte, and put the brochure back in my notebook. Found art won. Art can be found anywhere; in the everyday, in the moment, in the extraordinary that is disguised like a second in time. Just cut, paste, and create it.

Love,

G

Oct17

The Hmmm Moment of Damien Hirst

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Have you ever had a ‘hmmm‘ moment? Hand rubbing chin, frown set between brows, heavy inhale followed by hurried exhale, absolutely unsure of what your opinion is on something, yet aware that you should have one; that kind of hmmm moment.

You see, that was my initial reaction to the Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern. I was facing the open mouth of a shark, his sharp teeth an impossible breath away, his eyes reflecting my puzzled look; I was standing in front of the shark piece that ensured notoriety for the artist who is regularly compared to marmite; you either love him or hate him.
However, just then it felt like I lost my sense of taste, as I could not decide if I loved or hated it. Hmmm.

The exhibition was on at the same time Kusama was on, and separated by a floor and a million lightyears of artistic approach, I was (unfairly) comparing the two. Kusama is one of my favourite artists for the things she embeds in what she creates, the thought that goes into the action, the dedication that goes into her practice. This was not something that I could readily feel in the pastel green rooms of the Hirst collection. It did not help that the first room had his spot paintings, that even though was approached with the same precision that Kusama exhibited in her spots, this approach was more scientific (complete uniformity in size, equal distance between them, every spot a different colour) and more, well, obvious. Hmmm.

However, a few steps forward and I came across ‘A thousand Years 1990‘, and I stood in front of it, with a determined fascination. A full life cycle was played out in front of the voyeuristic crowd (a perspex box contains maggots that turn into flies, and fly around an insect-o-cutor, with some getting killed and others living through it), and it immediately ignited my pre-existing interest for the meeting point of art and science. From the stark contrast of the mediums (a clear geometric box containing messy organic matter), to the right of the human over life and death.

I found some of his work impressive, but on a technical level: his work with embalmed animals, the most famous I guess being the shark in The Impossibility of Death in The Mind of Someone Living, but also the sheep from Away From the Flock, and it’s counter part, The Black Sheep; the Pharmacy and Trinity-Pharmacology, Physiology and Pathology displays, where he replicates the environment of a pharmacy in the gallery setting (Still and Doubt were similar, yet more powerful); and the Spin Paintings, that even though are truly impressive (and were seen in the Olympics as well), seemed to me to remain in the technical level.

However the point where I started warming up to his art was Dead Ends Died Out, Examined. Cigarette butts were lined along the shelves of a cabinet that came as a precursor to his use of museological display techniques. From the life cycle of a single cigarette to its effects to the life cycle of the smoker, and the value of the object as an exhibit, the work had something threaded through it that resonated with me.

In the same line of thought, I found Lullaby (a meticulously arranged wall of pills) and Judgment Day (a meticulously arranged wall of diamonds) equally interesting and mystifying.

I also liked the butterfly works: In In and Out of Love-White Paintings and Live Butterflies, white canvases embedded with pupae were hung in a specially maintained humid environment; slowly, the butterflies hatch, and fly away from the paintings and around the room, where they are fed on sugar water, fruit and flowers, mate and lay eggs. You then come out of that and walk into the somber In and Out of Love-Butterfly Paintings and Ashtrays, where dead butterflies are stuck on patterned paintings, in a room with scattered ashtrays. The duality of life and death as well as beauty and horror are just experienced in the most visceral and disconcerting way, and I remember needing a second to establish what kind of awe I was experiencing: admiration or disgust. A similar mosaic of butterflies can be seen through a spiritual filter in the Doorways in the kingdom of Heaven, Sympathy in White Major-Absolution II and I am become Death, Shatterer of Worlds. It is interesting to see how he combined these paintings with his Anatomy of an Angel sculpture, where an angel is carved from white marble, one side perfect, the other stripped to show the anatomical parts of a human.

I went around through the whole exhibition, and I still had not made up my mind.

I walked past The Incomplete Truth, a white dove trapped in mid-flight, in a moment in time, in formaldehyde, in a room, in between life and death, in between love and hate, in a hmmm moment that you can not really sway on either sides, polar opposites that are closer to each other than they are to their middle.

And I am content to remain in that hmmm moment; because i don’t know if I like it or dislike it. An opinion is not necessary to take away something.

Love,

G

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oct11

RetroARTive: Sarah Lucas Rose Bush

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I remember reading a piece about déjà-vu; if memory serves me right, it said that it is a chemical imbalance on the amygdala, the almond-shaped part of the brain that processes emotions and feelings as they are taking place. Apparently, that momentary lapse creates a memory from the present, generating the confusion that comes with remembering the now.
However, as I was standing in the familiar setting of the Situation, part of the Sadie Coles Gallery, I realised that the feeling I was re-experiencing was generated from what is similar but not same. A few months ago, I visited the space for the
Make Love Exhibition, and wrote the RetroARTive piece on it that drew me back to this space the second time. I wanted to see what occupied the space. I was pleasantly surprised.
It turned out that the gallery is in fact dedicated to Lucas‘s work until the end of 2012, and is following an organic flow of evolution that is curated by the artist herself. Historical and new pieces by Lucas and occasionally other artists occupy the space, and transform it into the artistic puzzle that is Lucas’s mind.
The wallpaper was the same but different, with an added layer building up and tearing down the previous image. Two big hooker Boots were in a podium in the middle of the room, lit by a single red bulb. Toilet bowls were carefully placed around the gallery, in the same spot that the concrete blocks and chairs were two months ago, giving the impression of a transformation. Indeed, the creature that was living on the ironing board before now moved to the main room, wrapped around a gun, pointing aimlessly at the wall.
I absolutely loved the main statue of presence and absence, the female shapeless form, breasts made of two light bulbs, and the pelvis, previously a tin now replaced by enamel.
Lucas’s work stayed true to the Make Love spirit, and added a layer on it.
And as I am posting this, I am wondering how the space is now. Only time will tell.

Love,

G

Oct7

Counting the stars: We Are All Jiggling Atoms

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There are moments in life that are so much bigger than you that you feel like your body is taken apart and then put back together within fractions of seconds; you feel a current of excitement rushing in with a sharp inhale, a jittery feeling of unrest bubbling right behind your heart, a moment that lasts for a century and you are in its centre, floating with your eyes closed, every pore on your body embracing the world around you.
We are so small when you think of the universe; When I was six, I was warned that If I tried to count the stars, they would show up as spots in the palms of my hand. It was a hot summer night, and we were in a square wearing white shorts and drinking lemonade out of small carton boxes. the boy that gave me that solemn piece of advice had a round face, and must have been two or three years older than me, which at the time established him as a star-counting authority. I took my eyes off the night sky, and run to find my friends, stealing glances at my palms to make sure they were spotless.
I don’t know if I have ever truly seen the night sky as a landscape of space; I think my head can not really fit the magnitude of its infinity. I see the movie version of it, black velvet with glitter splashed on it.
And here I am, in the Rug Factory, in the Jiggling Atoms exhibition, and the only word I can think of is perspective.
Yes, we are minuscule in relation to the world, but we are a world in our own right. We are made up of stardust, and particles, and atoms, and tiny little morsels of lifeless life that buzz and move and make up the massive from the minuscule.
In Jiggling Atoms, 25 artists got together and saw particle physics through art. Gravity, space crafts, Higs Boson, Hydron Collider, and everything else you have heard in a Big Bang Theory episode inspire some amazing works that test the boundaries between science and art (are there any?).

Even though I liked all the pieces I was truly smitten with two artists:

I really liked Jim Wright‘s structures, that gave an otherwordly three dimensional feel, merging science models and artistic sculptures in the same space.

My favourite pieces though had to be from Lizzie Towndrow, who knitted the head of Tycho Brahe, and made a hand-crafted sun that just lit the whole room.

I can not help but hope that there will be a publication of some sort from the exhibition, as the work was genuinely thought-provoking. I left wondering about atoms, art, people, and the things we take for granted.

Thinking of me, and the world, and space, and infinity, I realise I am an atom, a jiggling atom that is still trying to count the stars.

Love,

G

Sep8

Liminal: making a 3 minute sculpture in Tate Britain

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They say art is eternal, but I am not sure. I am inside Tate Britain, standing in front of the latest addition, a sculpture that encompasses beauty with a sharp social commentary on the ephemeral nature of modern culture. And just as I am admiring its beauty, a small boy, no more than three, walks in front of me, takes a block off, and walks away.

No, I have not just witnessed an act of juveline vandalism. I am in fact talking about Liminal, the piece created by artists Kieren Reed and Abigail Hunt, an open invitation to visitors of all ages to experience sculpture in a physical, material, and social way, taking place every Weekend in various places inside Tate.

Wooden blocks of all shapes and sizes lie on the floor, creating an ever-changing landscape as visitors pick them, build them up, tear them down, move them around and turn them into something completely different.

Visitors turn into impromptu artists, having the chance to create a temporary sculpture inside one of the biggest galleries in the world, and the beauty of it is how temporary it is; how you were part of this whole process, this beautiful room for this specific slice of time, before other hands take the parts that made your piece to create others.

It is amazing to think how the whole room could be conceived as a continuously moving sculpture, constructed and deconstructed by the sculptors themselves.

I watch the child pause as he realizes that I am still standing next to my piece, containing the small square box that is missing from his. I smile a smile of agreement, and he goes on, taking the piece, changing my piece, adding to his, simultaneously creating two new forms, simultaneously changing both pieces.
Our actions always simultaneously change both pieces.

Love,

G

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