Tag Archives: sculpture

Nov13

The Semi-Naked Truth of John Palatinus: People from the Village

Posted on November 13, 2012 by the magnificent something

I have always been fascinated with the distinction between artistic, erotic, and pornographic. The fine lines between the forms (if there are any lines at all) are tested by a lot of artists, some times to provoke, other times to test, and in some instances, well, just because it happened.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of a naked man. I was in that stage between not too young and not old enough, and its source was so unexpected that I remember surprise overtaking every other single feeling.
It was in a magazine. I remember going to the newsstand, and seeing the corner of a cover hidden behind a pile of other magazines on the top shelf. Now, you have to believe me, I really did not know why these magazines were on the top shelf, why they were covered in plastic, or why parts of them had small stickers blocking parts of the cover picture. I just read ‘great competition’ on the cover, and as I was going through the stage of collecting everything, I grabbed it, went to the counter, and even though I thought it was strange that the cashier asked me twice if I knew what I was buying, I accepted his offer for a black bag and went home.

I remember going in the living room, taking the magazine out of the bag and out of its plastic case, and opening it. The feature it was in started with a guy wearing a flannel shirt, black trousers and boots. His hair was curly and his face long. It seemed like every shot magically took one piece of clothing off him, so, when I turned the page, there he was, naked. I had never seen a picture of a naked man before. It was so strange. He was so …different. His penis was the strangest, weirdest thing I had seen up until that moment; don’t get me wrong, growing up in Greece meant getting your fair share of nude sculptures in museums, naked lithographs in history books and if participating in sports, locker rooms with other naked men. But the fact that this was on a magazine made this experience totally different. It was not meant to be artistic; it was intended to be erotic-even though it ended being pornographic.

So being in Space Station 65 and standing in front of John Palatinus‘s naked portraits of men is making me think of these distinctions. Male sexual photography was defined, stigmatised, and redefined during the 1950s, and Palatinus was one of the key figures in this era.
During that period, photographers started taking portraits of handsome men with built bodies, that as time passed they started losing items of clothing. The images were printed in magazines like Tomorrow’s Man, or mailed directly to customers in the pretence of admiring the male physique. However, when full-frontal pictures started emerging, the authorities stepped in and arrested various publishers, photographers, and models.

One of these photographers was John Palatinus. When the New York police department and the US Postage Inspectors raided his apartment, they confiscated all of his prints, photographs, original negatives, cameras, lights, and equipments. After a conviction of Conspiracy and a misdemeanour charge, Palatinus was disgraced, out of business, and most importantly robbed out of his whole back work.

Now, you might be reading this and thinking ‘well, what work? This was pornography!’. And that is where the fine line lies. Even though the pictures were sexually charged, they would be described as erotic instead of pornographic. They were admiring the male form instead of cheapening it. Palatinus got rid of the cheesy props and the cheap backdrops, and used white backgrounds, lights and shadow to highlight the topography of the male physique.

Countless of shoots have been informed from Palatinus’s work, and some have actually completely copied his style (giving him credit, of course). This is why archivist and curator of vintage physique photography, Alan Harmon, was extremely surprised when he after speaking with Palatinus, he discovered they not only lived close by, but would embark on a mission to retrieve a lot of his photography from various sources.

A large portion of his work has been recovered, and can be seen on the walls of Space Station 65. From the risqué to the explicit, it is the demure that seem to hide questions about sexuality, arousal, erotica and, well, art.

This made me think of the homoerotically charged imagery of Ambercrombie & Fitch, and the Men’s Health magazines that use simular poses and eventually claim to serve the same purpose: admire the male physique. The classic cover shot with a man looking down at his toned torso with a smile on his face is tinted with a hint of eroticism that can be found in that early male physique photography.

The camera might be digital now, but the light still captures the same questions, the same social mysteries, the same fine lines that make the edges of the pixels.

‘click’

Love,

Oct24

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

Posted on October 24, 2012 by the magnificent something

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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,

Oct11

RetroARTive: Sarah Lucas Rose Bush

Posted on October 11, 2012 by the magnificent something

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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,

Sep8

Liminal: making a 3 minute sculpture in Tate Britain

Posted on September 8, 2012 by the magnificent something

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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,

May28

Human as Algorithm: Gabriel Kudi at the Sadie Coles Gallery

Posted on May 28, 2012 by the magnificent something

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I think it is safe to say that my love for the marriage of science and art is no secret. I always find it fascinating when one discipline borrows from the other, when their opposite attract, collide and coexist in the same space.
So, I have now paused in front of Gabriel Kuri‘s work in the Sadie Coles Gallery, a deep frown set between my eyebrows, bottom lip resting between my teeth, palm scratching the stubble on my chin. I am squinting. Taking a step forward. I love it.
I went in the gallery aiming to catch a quick glimpse of the Sarah Lucas exhibition, but by the time I started asking, the work had already grabbed my attention. The walls are lined with pieces of gold-coloured insulation foam, in weird shapes and different sizes. I looked intently, like a child that realises that the grown ups left the study room unlocked. I grabbed an exhibition guide, and walked into the main space.

The insulation foam is the main material of this series of self-portraits. The central inspiration behind the work, and the overall exhibition came from an essay by statistician David Spiegelhalter, in which he identifies classical symmetry, historical data and subjective judgement as the three fundamental bases for calculating the probability of an event. Kuri, who named the exhibition after these three factors, is transforming them into sculptural conditions for his work.

Kuri examines his body as a diagram of relations in which lines connect through different points of information, and process this data through mathematical graphs and charts, getting the symmetrical shapes in which he shapes and loops the material he uses. By doing this, he is creating a piece that has the same inherent dimensions that he does, and is anchored by a random object that represents societal, gender, and human factors.
Kuri moulds linear graphs and sculptural objects into a single representation of the self. In addition to insulation foam, he uses massive burnt matches and oversized metal towel dispensers, shaping the towels into the prescribed dimensions. He is framing the soft throwaway contents with a glossy modernist shell, a stark and dark comment on the current utilitarian view of self-worth and personal image.

In the lower ground level, he displays a range of sculptures that continue on the same realm of exploring the self through playing with dimensions. His work follows the paradigm of social constructionism, where an object has relevance because of the setting it is found in. Imagine finding a toilet brush in the middle of a dinner table. Things make sense because they are found in a sensible place.
In the same line of thought, Kudi‘s work uses found objects and familiar material in unfamiliar structures, creating a feeling of wonder and unease to the viewer.
The work is interesting because it is pushing the boundaries without being too obvious, and raises questions without asking them.
Very engaging, and truly original-everything you would expect from the Sadie Cole Gallery.

Love,

May23

Work, art, or work of art? Mueck at Hauser & Wirth

Posted on May 23, 2012 by the magnificent something

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I am standing in the middle of a room. On my left, a 2 meter (6 feet) chicken is hanging upside down; on my right, a tiny woman is hugging a bundle of sticks against her naked body. Two women sit in the corner, alternating their gaze from one piece to the other, as if they are following the ball in a game of ping pong.
I am a stone’s throw away from the mecca of London shopping, in one of the most successful Galleries in the world, looking at an exhibition that explores consumption, beauty, femininity and mortality; no, the irony is not lost on me. Add to that the scathing critique from Time Out, and the online debate about art vs craft that the exhibition generated, and the whole space fills up with expectations.

Of course, I would not expect anything less from Hauser & Wirth. Best known for representing over 40 artists and the estates of some powerhouses in the world of art, the H&W galleries are known for taking calculated risks. And I have to say that their latest exhibition with 4 pieces by Ron Mueck is one of them.

In 1997, Ron Mueck‘s Dead Dad caused ripples of shock into the art crowd during Charles Saatchi’s Sensations exhibitions. He presented a miniature version of his dead father’s cadaver, that was both haunting and beautiful at the same time, raising strong emotive reactions from the audiences that came close to it, and the critics that reviewed it. Since then, Mueck went on to exhibit his work in many cities and countries, skipping London every single time; until now.

So, for the first time in over a decade, Mueck’s hyperrealist creations are taking central spot in the capital, inside the Savile Row Gallery rooms.

The exhibition starts with Drift, a small scale sculpture of a modern day middle-aged man that is chilling on a floating mattress, swim suit, glasses and tan on. He is casually extending his arms to his sides, as if he is hoping to touch something, or someone. He is floating alone, and even though his state appears relaxed, he is oozing loneliness.

In the room next door, Still Life is suspended from the ceiling. A man-sized chicken, with bound feet and plucked feathers is hanging upside down. The detail is breathtaking, and even though I knew it was not real, I was reluctant to go really close to it, and surprised it did not smell of dead poultry.

Opposite to it I found my favourite piece of the exhibition. In Woman with Sticks, Mueck explores some of my favourite themes in art and literature: folklore, femininity, beauty, fairytales and gender. A middle-aged naked woman is wielding under the weight of an impossibly large bundle of sticks. The work touches on the expectations and near unrealistic tasks that come along the way for women in legends and real life. What is interesting though is that even though other artists that have explored the subject have often used the typical feminine archetype of the female heroine, Mueck deviates from the norm of beauty as power, and chooses to portray his subject with a realistic attitude. Tired, imperfect skin, overweight, and naked, the sticks digging into her naked flesh as she is trying to hold them together, the goal ending up hurting her. Doing, instead of thinking. It is impossible to look at the piece without feeling something for the woman, without stirring an emotion from within; pity, disgust, aversion, sympathy.

The final piece is Youth, a depiction of a young black boy lifting his blood-stained shirt to inspect a cut on his torso. The piece had been compared to Christian depictions of St Thomas inspecting the wounds of Christ to ensure he was indeed hurt. Mueck uses the same vehicle to portray the invincible self-view of youth, to demonstrate that death is a concept that evolves with age to include the person that is thinking of it. The boy looks puzzled, as if it is registering the wound, but is not registering it on his body. Is he mortal? Are we mortal?

However, Mueck’s work has sparked the classic art dilemma: is it art or is it craft? Is he an artist, or a puppeteer? is there anything artistic in the mixed media that he presents, or is it just the result of flawless technique.

Is it a piece of art, a piece of work, or a work of art?

Well, I am afraid that for me, there is, and shouldn’t be a clear-cut definition. By claiming that something is not art, one implies a knowledge of what is art, making the concept finite, with neat borders that can not be crossed. Painting by numbers and numbers of paint. Different pieces and different artists touch different emotions in different people. I have been in exhibitions where a person is exclaiming ‘how is this art?’ when her friend next to her was moved to tears.

So, in this case I will not make a decision if this is art or not; that is for you to decide. My personal view is that this is a show that if you have the chance to see, then see it. Pop inside, explore the rooms, and see how the work makes you feel. I found it powerful, and a bit sad; i found Woman with Sticks extremely interesting, and very touching; the exhibition had an underlining commentary, that even though it was obvious in its messages, it delivered them loud and clear. Is this art? Only time will tell.

Love,

May18

The Contents of an Artist’s mind: Hans-Peter Feldman at the Serpentine

Posted on May 18, 2012 by the magnificent something

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I am the exact opposite of a GPS. I have no sense of direction, whatsoever. If you put me in front of the London Eye, with a gigantic neon arrow pointing at it, and ask me to lead you there, we will end up having tea and scones in Manchester. If we were in a scary movie, I would be the one that looks at the map for a couple of seconds, and then point to the dark, menacing looking road, saying ‘this is the way’, much to the dismay of the rest of the group.
So,all this might explain why I am finding myself in the middle of green fields, with dirt on my new shoes, a broken umbrella and a soaked coat. I am looking at the battery falling down to 2% on my iPhone, and the Google Maps holding onto the screen for dear life as they tell me to go left; and then the program closes; the iPhone shuts down. I look around. I am screwed.
Granted, I am only in the middle of Hyde Park, so I can find my way out easy enough (I think). But I don’t want to. I came here on a mission, and I will achieve it. So, relying on the signage and the kindness of strangers, I was directed towards my destination. 20 minutes later, I was entering the Serpentine Gallery with a dramatic sigh, dripping, eyes wide open.

Famous for its eclectic exhibitions and clever use of space, the Serpentine Gallery is like a small oasis in the middle of Hyde Park. It has a truly rich array of events, a great architecture and education schedule, and a bookshop that is responsible for a sharp decrease in my bank account.

I kept repeating to myself ‘eyes on the prize’, so upon entering, I made my way straight through to the exhibition. Inside, you can not help but feel that you are in a Charlie Kauffman movie; you are stuck inside the mind of an artist, exploring his memories in the corridors, his feelings in the well lit room, his fears in the dark ones. The exhibition, a selection of Hans-Peter Feldmann’s body of work, takes over the main gallery space, and is hosting some of his most famous pieces next to brand new work.

Satirical, often humorous, poignantly dreamy and always humane, his work is an observational masterpiece. He maintains the child-like fascination of presenting the everyday as unique, and the trivial as extraordinary. Feldmann strives to see the world in different ways, from different angles and different eyes; from the picture of a woman waving goodbye, attached to a mechanical device that simulates the movement, to a giant poster of bookcases filled with books that will never be read. His work includes flower pots propped on the wall, two plastic sculptures of fluorescent Greek figures and chiaroscuro portraits of dignified cross-eyed sitters and Victorian ladies with clown noses.

You can find raw beauty in between the humorous exhibits. In Sparrow Play, a little girl is touching the cut out silhouette of someone that was there but is no more, something only she could see at that moment in time, invisible to us, no other trace but the shadow that was left on the black and white pavement. You can find social comments, from the use of photography as a commercial avenue, to the commercialised needs that shape our daily lives. He seems to be testing the boundaries of art, graphic design, concept and creation with every single work he exhibits.

I also loved the way Feldmann seemed to be cataloguing and compartmentalising events, like All the Clothes of a Woman, where he has taken portraits of the clothing found in a woman’s wardrobe; the same with the Contents of a Woman’s Bag. His observational work includes a cluster of pictures of car radios playing good music, a photographic catalogue of a pound of strawberries, and a group of pictures of lips. These collections of moments have a rather subtle but profound effect, creating the illusion of a familiar viewing, when you have never seen or experienced what is depicted.

There is however a show stopping moment; entering the dark world of Shadow Play, the first thing you see is a long table, with a collection of strange everyday items arranged on the table. However, it is not the items themselves that are strange; it is the way they are placed, how they are out of place, out of context, creating a new context, creating a different reality. The objects are moving, aided by a number of electrical devices, and lit by lamps that are housed in metal tins. And then your eye follows the light through the objects to the wall. And you can not help but gasp. On the wall, a new scene is created, a choreography of shadows shows a world that is not there, but is there nonetheless. It is beautiful. You sit down, and you stare at it, and you feel that you are witnessing a moment of pure beauty, a moment that reminds you how simple things, light and shadow, can mix and make magic.
On the way out, I visit the shop, and buy the exhibition catalogue. With a lighter heart and bank account, I step out, in the rain, and look to my left; then to my right. I am not sure which way I am supposed to go; but you know what? I feel like exploring.

Love,

May8

Deller & Shringley at the Hayward: from the everyday to the absurd and back.

Posted on May 8, 2012 by the magnificent something

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I spent the last twenty minutes on the top deck of 139, listening to Kimya Dawson and reading the catalogues of the two exhibitions I have just stepped out of. We were travelling relatively fast through London, a city in a state of surprise at the rays of sunshine that were staining a perfectly gloomy day. The bus was completely empty, and had the combined smell of sunscreen and rubber. I sat on the top deck, catching a glimpse on the screen of myself sitting in the front seat, with my coat on, and my bag on my lap, looking decidedly chirpier than I was this morning.
I found my usual spot in the Oxford Circus Costa, sat down and looked at the people in the next table. A father with greying temples and sparkly eyes was making his young daughter cringe by displaying some serious public affection. She clawed her way out of his hug, and sat on the chair next to him, looking intently at his face. He started moving his hands to what I am sure he thought was the way the cool kids moved these days, and said something along the lines of can I get a hug, yo!. The daughter looked at him mortified, eyes scanning the cafe as she said to him ‘dad, you are so embarrassing’, and then flashing a warm grin and falling in his lap. It is a nice day. I take my iPad and my exhibition catalogues out, take a quick sip from my skinny caramel latte, and here we go:

Getting in the Hayward Gallery definitely looks harder than it really is. Littered with construction work and greeted with a queue that would make anyone gasp, it seems a bit of hard work. Trust me, it is worth it. And I should know, I was in a really foul mood this morning. I spent the day watching reruns of Scrubs, listening to Velvet Underground and drinking apple and ginger tea next to the window, watching the weather being as miserable as I was. I reached for the latest copy of Time Out, and saw that this is the last week for the Deller/ Shringley exhibition. Crap. I wanted to see this for ages. Well, I still had some time, maybe I could do it Thursday, before work, or- No; no; no. I would do it now. After changing music (Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and gulping down my tea, I had a shower, stood in front of my closet for a good 3 minutes, and then I was off.
I had a plan. I would pop in, wonder around the exhibitions for 30 minutes, then their amazing gallery shop for another 30 minutes, and then take the bus to the British Library for a stale scone and a guilty pleasure read. But, when I was greeted at the corner by a massive queue, I knew that the plans would have to change. I initially did my infamous undecided choreography (3 steps forward, stop, think I better leave, turn, 2 steps forward, stop, think I better stay) long enough that the queue had almost doubled since I came. I decided to join in, brave the rain, and see how it goes. If I am not in by the next 15 minutes, I will just go. However, 5 minutes later, I was inside, had my ticket, and was moving in the gallery space. The gallery assistants are not only lovely and helpful, they are also super fast, effectively cutting down the waiting time to the bare minimum. I thanked them, got the programs, and walked in.

Now, the Hayward Gallery is a really special place for me. It has hosted some of the most inspiring exhibitions I have ever seen, and introduced me to amazing talents and their work. It was there that I first saw the patchworks of Tracey Emin, or stood under a chandelier of knickers by Pippilotti. It is a truly amazing space, and I can not recommend it enough. However, I have to admit that I was unsure if their new exhibitions would hold up to the expectations that the precious ones have created.

Well, they definitely did. I first walked in to the Jeremy Deller exhibition, only to be started for a second. You see, the door actually leads inside a room; more specifically, his room, or a recreation of his room, that held the Open Bedroom exhibition 20 years ago. In a time where artists were holding open studio exhibitions, Deller was living with his parents, and that was the only space he could use. Originally seen by no more than 20 people, the space contains the room and the bathroom, with excerpts from Pensees, his artists book, taped on the four yellow walls, like civilised forms of graffiti, actually originating from graffiti found in the Men’s lavatories of the former British Library. The juxtaposition is so intriguing and thought provoking, that it is impossible not to forget that you are in a gallery space and not in someone’s actual bathroom. It is almost as if you are visiting someone’s house, and at a visit to their WC, you can not help but open their medicine cabinet. The whole exhibit has this kind of voyeristic feeling to it, like exploring the space and mind of someone close to you, without their actual consent.
Passing from the uses of Literacy (an open invitation to Manic Street Preachers fans to reinterpret and demonstrate the band’s contribution to art, and intellectual music), Jerusalem, and the impressively constructed Beyond the White Walls, one can find Valerie’s Snack Bar (where you can pop in for a quick cuppa), the amazing Acid Brass (where a traditional Brass Band plays Acid House) with it’s lateral counterpart History of the World (covering an entire wall with a simple but ingenious chart). You can see Exodus, a truly beautiful and strangely hypnotic 3D film that was the climax of his Turner Prize winning film Memory Bucket; American Travels; My Failures (with a number of unrealised projects); and Many Ways to Hurt you – the Life and Times of Andrian Street (the journey of a young man that dreamt of becoming a professional wrestler instead of following in the mining tradition of his town).
However, the two most powerful exhibits are just a wall away. The Battle of Orgreave – an injury to one is an injury to all covers a room with the still raw history of the miner’s strike and the implications it had on the social landscape. There is a timeline (that is impossible to read without getting goosebumps), videos (police training for riots control), and an hour long film (including a restaging of the event with more that 1000 participants) on the confrontation that took place near the Orgreave coking plant in South Yorkshire, something that he had witnessed through his television screen and marked him as a scene of war, instead of a labour dispute. This lead to The Battle of Orgreave, and his ‘The English Civil War Part II’.
The second exhibit that really touched me was the It Is What It Is. That part of the gallery is turned to a discussion forum, with a burned-out corpse of a bombed car in the middle of the room (dubbed ‘the conversation piece from hell’) that brought death and havoc on the 5th of May, 2007 in Central Baghdad. I can not describe the sadness that you feel by looking at what remained from the car, the violence that is carved on every inch of the lifeless object. The forum centres around members of the public and expert witnesses, people from both sides and people from no side. Regardless of the political position, the room holds such a heavy moment that you feel like the air was drained from it. It is quite powerful, and quite poignant.
Deller’s work creates some very powerful emotions, deep and raw, sometimes painful. So it felt slightly strange walking in the Shringley exhibition. As surprised as I was to enter in Deller’s room, I was equally dumbfounded when I was greeted by a headless ostrich. You see, Shringley endeavours to create equally strong reactions to his work; but of a different kind. He is aiming for ‘laughter, intrigued confusion, and disquiet’; and I can assure you, he is getting all three. His work gives birth to more questions than answers: where did the ostrich’s head go? Who is wearing these giant boots? Who deformed this ladder? And why is there a little stick man locked outside in the roof terrace?
His work seems often surreal and paradoxical, with a door painted on a wall, or a ball full of 5 year’s worth of toe nails, or even a headless drummer banging on his drums even after death (as a headless chicken would). His work is full of cheeky winks to other artists, from the hand that tirelessly turns on and off the Light Switch (a reference to Martin Creed‘s Turner Prize winning Work 227: the Lights Go On and Off); to Sleep (referencing Warhol‘s Sleep, one of my favourite experimental films), with an animation of a man experiencing sleep for 8 minutes, instead of the 8 hours.
Shringley is also brushing on the subject of death in many of his pieces, notably on the Gravestone (with a shopping list on it), or the Jack Russell Terrier that is holding a sign exclaiming its death.
It is truly fascinating to see people’s reactions to the pieces. A girl in front of me had tears strolling down her eyes when she was sitting in front of the (admittedly hilarious) drawings room. A man was laughing in increasing bursts in front of a 30 second animation on a loop, his laughter intensifying every time the loop started again. A group of older visitors were standing in front of the Stick Figures having Sex in the Hood of a Car, smiling knowingly when a group of teenagers was wondering if this was art. Two girls (and 3 guys) jumping when they spotted the Dead Rat in the corner of the room.

Shringley evokes strong emotions, but they are the ones that are usually not associated with art. His work is a cross between conceptual, graphic and humorous, and I can genuinely say that it is simultaneously amusing and thought-provocative on so many levels.

However, the exhibitions finish at the end of this week, so if I were you, I would put my shoes on, turn the screen off, and walk, run, or cycle to the Hayward as fast as I could. If however you can not see it, Hayward Press has printed two catalogs that are sold in their online shop that will provide you with all the wonderful strangeness that falls under the Shringley/ Deller exhibitions.

I am off now. But I will see you later,

Love,