By Jenine McGaughran
In October 2008 CollectingLiveArt organised a number of events to take place at the heart of Zoo Art Fair. Discretely subversive soldiers whistled whilst mingling amongst an art savvy audience, while fair attendants clogged up doorways to galleries, only to disperse and re-group in different locations and configurations throughout the fair. The most provocative of all spectacles performed by Karin Kihlberg and Reuben Henry, was a live auction, auctioning itself off to the highest bidder. The events sought to plant a provocation at the heart of the fair, prompting gallerists, collectors and visitors to think through the potential ways it is possible to collect the uncollectable, intangible live events or happenings with a shelf life lasting long as the action itself.
Established in January 2008, CollectingLiveArt’s mission is to campaign for the collection of ephemeral works, thus ensuring Live Art’s legacy through its presence in private and public collections. While their strategy is to challenge collectors and audiences, their aim is to develop sustainable relationships between collectors and performance artists, creating methods of collecting relevant to the practices of individual practitioners. While CollectingLiveArt’s campaign signals the necessity for the collecting of performance, its very definition contradicts the notion of establishing a collection in formulating a legacy; for it is only within the collective memory and through the process of documentation that Live Art can be remembered and recorded.
The lineage of ‘Live Art’ or performance (the particular genre of the live of concern here) has been catalogued since its inception in the 1960s. Originating in movements such as Surrealism and Dada but also off the back of the dominant practice of Conceptual Art, performance offered a space for artists to transcend the commodification of their work, a space where ideas would be exchanged in return for the spectators’ time. Existing as a platform for the bringing to life of conceptual ideas, performances were enacted directly to audiences with the view to shock them into reassessing their own conceptions of art and there relation to wider cultural and political spheres.
In recent years, performance has taken a more prominent role within the contemporary art circuit, while simultaneously the art world has morphed into the wider sphere of the leisure industry. Audiences have come to expect scheduled events programmed around exhibitions and art fairs, thus performance art is in high demand. More and more spectators expect a closer encounter with the creator of these spectacles and galleries keep coming up with goods, supporting their artists while gaining invaluable PR for the creativity and breadth of their gallery’s programme in the process. However, despite audiences growing demand for such spectacles, there remains an ambiguity as to the authenticity of their engagement. Do the spectators seek out performance in the spirit of its original creation or is it just that it happens to be part of a social scene?
The notion of collecting performance art is by no means new; increasingly museums are allocating funds specifically for the acquisition of ephemeral works. The collection of performance documentation, in the form of photographs and written remnants, has existed for as long as it has been the by-product of a performance. Props used in performance enter collections and in so doing often undergo transformation from theatrical prop to sculptural item. Take Spartacus Chetwynd’s papier-mâché octopus, which formerly featured in The Sex Life of Nero and Hokusai Octopus - 'tentacle porn' as part of the Bloomberg’s New Contemporaries in 2004, the same piece was later included in Stay Forever and Ever and Ever for its physicality as an ‘object’ that retains it cultural significance through nostalgic collective memory.
However these examples of collecting Live Art depend entirely on the leftovers of performance and render the live act obsolete by preserving it through its trace. An alternative model for acquiring the live event is played out through the work of Tino Sehgal. Informed by a background in choreography and economics his practice critiques the production of material objects. His performances (‘situations’) refuse any means of cataloguing; no objects are produced, no written instructions or contracts created, documentation through video and photography are forbidden, the event exists and relies entirely on oral instruction and interpretation by its performer. The dematerialised object created in Conceptual Arts legacy emphasises process over commodity, Sehgal’s work proposes an alternative and sustainable means of production dependant upon the ephemeral moment.
Getting collectors to buy into this is an entirely difference matter. Of course major institutions acquire these moments in time and reproduce them in the conditions and spirit of their creation. However, how is it possible for such works, by perhaps lesser known artists, to become more widely purchased amongst private collectors? What is to be exchanged between artist and collector? Once the deal is done are there to be restrictions are placed upon the artist or rights bestowed upon the collector? Indeed there are no definitive rules for the collection of ephemeral works; there are no best practice guidelines in place, instead the situation relies upon the mutual agreement of both parties on the terms and conditions of the sale, but also on the willingness of collectors to support artists through commissioning new works that have little or no material trace surviving beyond the event
Tuesday 24 February 2009
Wednesday 18 February 2009
From Methodism - Sophie Risner (fanzine contribution)
So it was with great attention to detail that 176 Prince of Wales Road in the midsts of Chalk Farm, London became the resting point for Anita Zabludowicz. Pushing aside arts steady relationship to the east of London and shifting the telescope a few steps north. The trend for displaying art within the construction of a white space falters sporadically, leave aside the hard feeling of concrete beneath foot and enter the tide of the past. Wooden floorboards and high romantic ceilings shelter a circular mezzanine level with abstract splendor. The building is the history of the space, its sounds and feelings, the greeting columns which push up wards steady an impressive resume towards the Parthenon in Rome or indeed the Parthenon in Athens. Hinting at what could have dwelled within the space but again not in any way getting near the reality of how 176 came to exists on a residential road in Camden.
To get back to the entry point of 176 would be to recognize the work of John Wesley. In the 18th century John Wesley took the infancy of Methodism and introduced it to the boroughs of Camden and Islington, settling in the area just as the Huguenots had done to the east. Like what had come before, Wesley looked towards nesting his approach to Methodism within a borough and within that borough - a building. Crafting his sincerest thoughts and hard work John Wesley looked towards these great symbolic structures of Rome and Athens when forging his church, stone grandieur made for momentary pauses in church design as well as an unbeknown umbilical link to its current manifestation, up the stairs and through the doors it is hard to define how Zabludowiczs space could have possibly been a place of worship, but equally as remarkable the reality that whilst a place of worship its future lay in the striving need to display contemporary art. The characteristics of the building manage to whisper towards those felt by The National Museum, brooding and suspicious, the columns and stairs march the visitor from street level up into sanctuary. Religion and culture so in-exptricably linked, one could not have formed for the removal of the other. The signs seem to point towards a shift in the area, negating the Wesleyan Methodist movement for something all the more radical. Asking the borough of Camden to produce a more revolutionary gesture so as to by-pass the swell of the city and become of its own meaning and making. It is true that for many years now the North London borough stubbornly asked for the inventive and the creative to pass through and down its murky streets; plonking on an old wooden piano at the end of a bar, smoking on a cigerette surrounded by shouting laughter and the sound of an old man singing. Stop in the street of Camden today and there is a fierce combination of tired tourism and slacking rebellion. So how did the church gain its place so close to one of the capitals loudest communities, infested with problems and tired of the woes of existence it is almost incomprehensible that a place of such thought and composure ran the gauntlet of time to remain a place for thoughts made and ideas discussed. It is true that one of the many incarnations for 176 was that of a drama school, Drama Centre London helped practitioners also move from one moment of knowledge to a greater moment, educating budding young actors to BA level and beyond. Hold on though, to associate origin with the currency of the now through a building is to lay claims that there may be greater things at work, That the building is responsible for what happens, away from those who may procure it. Zabludowicz may have found the place to her pleasing, but would it be too spiritual to romanticize that the building may actually have found her?
Between 1864 and 1920 the voice of German sociologist was conjuring up nightmares that lead to the continued exploration of a western currency of condition, Max Weber not only forged some of the most relevant social theory of our day but he maintained the pertinent existence of something still not quite understood; he declared through his thinking that the arrival of Capitalism was almost as spiritual as the choice of Zabludowicz. Not to get carried away with the relationship a building has to its necessary outputs and inputs. Religion is something which must be approached carefully as not to make for a religious reading but to equally be able to ‘read’ religion. It’s complication is still the unauthorized formatting programme which fruitfully holds the realms of our own civilization, fighting the fierce trend to side-step religion and declare it useless, whilst also claiming through a shrugged shoulder the null-and-void mentality of religion is not just extreme Marxism but possibly a poor mans diet when trying to digest the wonders of how and why it is we came to manifest the sociological passage of our presentness. The actuality is far more entertaining and verocious, the shifts in patterns of thinking and understanding explore shifts in the placement of religion from one of near-governmental proportions to something a lot more idiosyncratic, indeed within United Kingdom protocol it is more and more the case not to want to be actively religious, not to find a place for a practice of religion but to actually systematize religion out of the attitude to life in favour of a passage of personal progression, that, or humanity just lost the need to believe. Either way it just simply isn’t the current trend to declare Christianity as it may have been so very recently. Religious ritualization has not only slipped from our ‘to-do-list’ but it has also vanished from the necessary requirements by which to exists. Something which commanded such structures as 176 to be built, with such wit and enthusiasm, left to ruin with half a roof, the slip from religion to capitalism is interesting but where did it leave culture? The hard stones that ‘shroud,’ to use a neo-religious concept, 176, make for an almost naturalistic gallery space, especially one to explain the vast and expansive collection of Anita Zabludowicz. To remain true to the gesture of this conundrum it is important to shift back to the time and making of 1905, sketched away in a dank cell, or so I like to envision, the world of Max Weber expressioned a landscape which looked towards a shift from Protestantism to Capitalism. True, Protestantism is not the making of Methodism but neither is John Wesley, who may or may not have had a strong over seeing hand in the production of 176. The shift here is more obvious than first recognized, it is the timely thought that Protestantism is the structural God father for a Methodist ethic. That Methodism formed from the ideas of Protestantism, this helps the case even more.
Explorative devices would now bring into view the hinge of 176, the move it made from a religious moment to its current incarnation as a resting point for the visibility of art. What the conundrum outlines refers back to the device formulated by Weber, one which declares a dramatic sociological shift from a civilization ‘shrouded,’ to use that word again, or maybe even governed by religious zeal to one equally shrouded by a capitalist zeal. The comparison between both approaches bears an unsettling resemblance. The possibilities to explore such ties between a religious practice and one of capitalism are a lot more unsettlingly multiple than it first may seem. It is this kind of discussion which is of interest when debating the passage that a building undertook to arrive on the surface of the world and how it managed to, 142 years later actually re-main on the surface of the earth, it is impressive that it has managed to attract such a diverse and altogether more ambitious approach, not left the ruin of another derelict obsession. Saying this, London is no minefield for derelict fetishism, there just simply isn’t enough room. Take for example the fascinating re-vamp of the Truman Brewery on Brick Lane, an 11 acre site which uses the best exploits of capital alongside the more identifiable conditions of art. Shoreditch’s Tea Building based on the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road looks towards the new development of the East London Line, it doesn’t just declare its attitude for re-invention by being within the heart of Londons ever-changing east end, it manages to stipulate the tide of change ocuring all around the place, banks turned into bars, post offices turned into fashion studios and in the case of fashionable space Village Underground, tube carriages transformed to become office spaces. Shifting this back to 176, it is not the clarity of the swiftness from religion to culture which is of massive interest to this debate, but the ideology that something really hasn’t changed all that much through this passing. To rephrase the inevitable it may be too ad-hoc to remember the passing of religion within this country as something so naturally elective, Weber would remain there standing and nodding stating the ever clear moment which looked toward the formation of capitalism from the seeds of protestantism, not just that, but from the very nature of what was happening the moment capitalism arrived, in that everything was happening, life was as life was, back in the tide that washed ashore during the past governed by religion. Equally a western civilization at the mercy of capitalism could be further more the revelation when comparing the mixed uses of a building situated within the off-beat tracks of a tired out borough. It doesn’t just swell with history but manage to become part of it, the grade II listing of 176 helps to relinquish a time passed and a dawn awoken. Traversing religion towards capitalism, dedicates to the theory of Weber more rightfully than is first resolved. That each and everything had to be in its right place for a place to be made of 176. Could culture be the transitory hobble drawing together the immense hitch-hike taken by the building, or is it more likely to be like religion and the drama school just another matter of moment. The fascination is what is next to come, where does a building with 142 years of cross-generational manipulation go from now, what can be shifted and what can be re-built, how can our civilization move into something beyond capitalism and even further away from religion, I don’t have the answer to this, but ask the building, it might.
To get back to the entry point of 176 would be to recognize the work of John Wesley. In the 18th century John Wesley took the infancy of Methodism and introduced it to the boroughs of Camden and Islington, settling in the area just as the Huguenots had done to the east. Like what had come before, Wesley looked towards nesting his approach to Methodism within a borough and within that borough - a building. Crafting his sincerest thoughts and hard work John Wesley looked towards these great symbolic structures of Rome and Athens when forging his church, stone grandieur made for momentary pauses in church design as well as an unbeknown umbilical link to its current manifestation, up the stairs and through the doors it is hard to define how Zabludowiczs space could have possibly been a place of worship, but equally as remarkable the reality that whilst a place of worship its future lay in the striving need to display contemporary art. The characteristics of the building manage to whisper towards those felt by The National Museum, brooding and suspicious, the columns and stairs march the visitor from street level up into sanctuary. Religion and culture so in-exptricably linked, one could not have formed for the removal of the other. The signs seem to point towards a shift in the area, negating the Wesleyan Methodist movement for something all the more radical. Asking the borough of Camden to produce a more revolutionary gesture so as to by-pass the swell of the city and become of its own meaning and making. It is true that for many years now the North London borough stubbornly asked for the inventive and the creative to pass through and down its murky streets; plonking on an old wooden piano at the end of a bar, smoking on a cigerette surrounded by shouting laughter and the sound of an old man singing. Stop in the street of Camden today and there is a fierce combination of tired tourism and slacking rebellion. So how did the church gain its place so close to one of the capitals loudest communities, infested with problems and tired of the woes of existence it is almost incomprehensible that a place of such thought and composure ran the gauntlet of time to remain a place for thoughts made and ideas discussed. It is true that one of the many incarnations for 176 was that of a drama school, Drama Centre London helped practitioners also move from one moment of knowledge to a greater moment, educating budding young actors to BA level and beyond. Hold on though, to associate origin with the currency of the now through a building is to lay claims that there may be greater things at work, That the building is responsible for what happens, away from those who may procure it. Zabludowicz may have found the place to her pleasing, but would it be too spiritual to romanticize that the building may actually have found her?
Between 1864 and 1920 the voice of German sociologist was conjuring up nightmares that lead to the continued exploration of a western currency of condition, Max Weber not only forged some of the most relevant social theory of our day but he maintained the pertinent existence of something still not quite understood; he declared through his thinking that the arrival of Capitalism was almost as spiritual as the choice of Zabludowicz. Not to get carried away with the relationship a building has to its necessary outputs and inputs. Religion is something which must be approached carefully as not to make for a religious reading but to equally be able to ‘read’ religion. It’s complication is still the unauthorized formatting programme which fruitfully holds the realms of our own civilization, fighting the fierce trend to side-step religion and declare it useless, whilst also claiming through a shrugged shoulder the null-and-void mentality of religion is not just extreme Marxism but possibly a poor mans diet when trying to digest the wonders of how and why it is we came to manifest the sociological passage of our presentness. The actuality is far more entertaining and verocious, the shifts in patterns of thinking and understanding explore shifts in the placement of religion from one of near-governmental proportions to something a lot more idiosyncratic, indeed within United Kingdom protocol it is more and more the case not to want to be actively religious, not to find a place for a practice of religion but to actually systematize religion out of the attitude to life in favour of a passage of personal progression, that, or humanity just lost the need to believe. Either way it just simply isn’t the current trend to declare Christianity as it may have been so very recently. Religious ritualization has not only slipped from our ‘to-do-list’ but it has also vanished from the necessary requirements by which to exists. Something which commanded such structures as 176 to be built, with such wit and enthusiasm, left to ruin with half a roof, the slip from religion to capitalism is interesting but where did it leave culture? The hard stones that ‘shroud,’ to use a neo-religious concept, 176, make for an almost naturalistic gallery space, especially one to explain the vast and expansive collection of Anita Zabludowicz. To remain true to the gesture of this conundrum it is important to shift back to the time and making of 1905, sketched away in a dank cell, or so I like to envision, the world of Max Weber expressioned a landscape which looked towards a shift from Protestantism to Capitalism. True, Protestantism is not the making of Methodism but neither is John Wesley, who may or may not have had a strong over seeing hand in the production of 176. The shift here is more obvious than first recognized, it is the timely thought that Protestantism is the structural God father for a Methodist ethic. That Methodism formed from the ideas of Protestantism, this helps the case even more.
Explorative devices would now bring into view the hinge of 176, the move it made from a religious moment to its current incarnation as a resting point for the visibility of art. What the conundrum outlines refers back to the device formulated by Weber, one which declares a dramatic sociological shift from a civilization ‘shrouded,’ to use that word again, or maybe even governed by religious zeal to one equally shrouded by a capitalist zeal. The comparison between both approaches bears an unsettling resemblance. The possibilities to explore such ties between a religious practice and one of capitalism are a lot more unsettlingly multiple than it first may seem. It is this kind of discussion which is of interest when debating the passage that a building undertook to arrive on the surface of the world and how it managed to, 142 years later actually re-main on the surface of the earth, it is impressive that it has managed to attract such a diverse and altogether more ambitious approach, not left the ruin of another derelict obsession. Saying this, London is no minefield for derelict fetishism, there just simply isn’t enough room. Take for example the fascinating re-vamp of the Truman Brewery on Brick Lane, an 11 acre site which uses the best exploits of capital alongside the more identifiable conditions of art. Shoreditch’s Tea Building based on the corner of Shoreditch High Street and Bethnal Green Road looks towards the new development of the East London Line, it doesn’t just declare its attitude for re-invention by being within the heart of Londons ever-changing east end, it manages to stipulate the tide of change ocuring all around the place, banks turned into bars, post offices turned into fashion studios and in the case of fashionable space Village Underground, tube carriages transformed to become office spaces. Shifting this back to 176, it is not the clarity of the swiftness from religion to culture which is of massive interest to this debate, but the ideology that something really hasn’t changed all that much through this passing. To rephrase the inevitable it may be too ad-hoc to remember the passing of religion within this country as something so naturally elective, Weber would remain there standing and nodding stating the ever clear moment which looked toward the formation of capitalism from the seeds of protestantism, not just that, but from the very nature of what was happening the moment capitalism arrived, in that everything was happening, life was as life was, back in the tide that washed ashore during the past governed by religion. Equally a western civilization at the mercy of capitalism could be further more the revelation when comparing the mixed uses of a building situated within the off-beat tracks of a tired out borough. It doesn’t just swell with history but manage to become part of it, the grade II listing of 176 helps to relinquish a time passed and a dawn awoken. Traversing religion towards capitalism, dedicates to the theory of Weber more rightfully than is first resolved. That each and everything had to be in its right place for a place to be made of 176. Could culture be the transitory hobble drawing together the immense hitch-hike taken by the building, or is it more likely to be like religion and the drama school just another matter of moment. The fascination is what is next to come, where does a building with 142 years of cross-generational manipulation go from now, what can be shifted and what can be re-built, how can our civilization move into something beyond capitalism and even further away from religion, I don’t have the answer to this, but ask the building, it might.
Virginia Phongsathorn / Dan Shaw-Town and Tim Winter
Virginia Phongsathorn
'Chicken Soup (The Commune)', 2007. Video NTSC on DVD. 3min 51sec.
“Within this piece I was thinking about what happens when there are opposing narratives between the audio and the picture, and how this situation can be manipulated. At the time I was looking at a lot of Lettrist film-makers (Maurice Lemaitre being the most well known) and also artists who have more recently dealt with undermining the structure of a film. I was interested in creating a kind of everyday strange moment. A documentation of an introspective act shot from an inside angle. A simple process infused with memories of past conversations and fleeting thoughts, as cooking and all kinds of making often are.”
Dan Shaw-Town and Tim Winter
'At the edge of the world his journey begins, an objects search for autonomy in a world full
of things,' 2008, DVD, 10min 9 sec.
This film is the culmination of an experimental project and collaboration between the film maker Tim Winter and Visual artist Dan Shaw-Town. It portrays a surrealist sensibility, focusing on the performativity and theatricality that makes up the beginning, middle and end stages in the production of an artwork. And within that, it strives to demonstrate the conceptual and formal decision making that accompanies this process, whilst at the same time being very aware of the somewhat futile nature of this activity in relation to what is going on around it.
The film focuses on the act of creativity as a humble activity, showing the search for how an object might come to exist in a self governing state, one of absolute autonomy. However this gesture gradually slips into a form of obsession, as objects are introduced to more objects until each acts as a 'display aid' or 'prop' for the next. This is epitomised as the objects existence becomes a burden of it's creators achievement.
Spontaneity and the notion of 'one thing leads to another' are key elements, that demonstrate the different stages of the production of an 'artwork'. Not so much focusing on the actual 'thing' itself, but instead being aware of the temporary situations that are created by it. The films conclusion is inevitable, demonstrating that the pursuit of autonomy is therefore left up to a sea of possibilities.
HYPERLINK "http://www.danshawtown.com" www.danshawtown.com
Karina Joseph
'Chicken Soup (The Commune)', 2007. Video NTSC on DVD. 3min 51sec.
“Within this piece I was thinking about what happens when there are opposing narratives between the audio and the picture, and how this situation can be manipulated. At the time I was looking at a lot of Lettrist film-makers (Maurice Lemaitre being the most well known) and also artists who have more recently dealt with undermining the structure of a film. I was interested in creating a kind of everyday strange moment. A documentation of an introspective act shot from an inside angle. A simple process infused with memories of past conversations and fleeting thoughts, as cooking and all kinds of making often are.”
Dan Shaw-Town and Tim Winter
'At the edge of the world his journey begins, an objects search for autonomy in a world full
of things,' 2008, DVD, 10min 9 sec.
This film is the culmination of an experimental project and collaboration between the film maker Tim Winter and Visual artist Dan Shaw-Town. It portrays a surrealist sensibility, focusing on the performativity and theatricality that makes up the beginning, middle and end stages in the production of an artwork. And within that, it strives to demonstrate the conceptual and formal decision making that accompanies this process, whilst at the same time being very aware of the somewhat futile nature of this activity in relation to what is going on around it.
The film focuses on the act of creativity as a humble activity, showing the search for how an object might come to exist in a self governing state, one of absolute autonomy. However this gesture gradually slips into a form of obsession, as objects are introduced to more objects until each acts as a 'display aid' or 'prop' for the next. This is epitomised as the objects existence becomes a burden of it's creators achievement.
Spontaneity and the notion of 'one thing leads to another' are key elements, that demonstrate the different stages of the production of an 'artwork'. Not so much focusing on the actual 'thing' itself, but instead being aware of the temporary situations that are created by it. The films conclusion is inevitable, demonstrating that the pursuit of autonomy is therefore left up to a sea of possibilities.
HYPERLINK "http://www.danshawtown.com" www.danshawtown.com
Karina Joseph
Contested Ground - Eric Randolph (fanzine contribution)
Contested Ground
Eric Randolph
I think I’m supposed to give the outsider’s perspective here, the spontaneous unadulterated reaction of someone who knows close to nothing about art. That’s supposed to be easy: all I have to do is be honest about my impressions. But actually it’s not that easy, because we enter any situation with a clutch of prejudices and interests that distort any notion of honest feeling we might have. And prejudices and interests are not simple either; often they are contradictory and swayed by mood and circumstance. So I walk into the main room of the exhibition and I look up at a big wooden tower sort of a thing, and it’s kind of wonky and has some bits of metal stuck to it and so on, and my initial reaction is to scoff. What am I supposed to do with these bits of wood here? How long am I supposed to look at it before I’ve fulfilled the requisite quota of art appreciation on this piece? It means nothing to me. But then some other prejudices kick in which tell me that I know there’s more to this than the simple construction of the thing itself. That there’s a relationship to the space, that at some level there’s an interaction happening between me and this piece however little my cynicism wishes to acknowledge it; that the mere act of having carried out the task of building it and erecting it and opening the doors to people is an artistic act in which I am complicit. This is the part of me that wants to be considered culturally aware and observant and analytical, the part of my brain that sends me every so often to the Tate Britain to pay £10 and walk around looking at famous things and stroking my beard and adopting that pendulum swing walk that people adopt in art museums, occasionally leaning in to peer closely at some detail of a painting so that others can see that I know what I’m doing.
I continue around the exhibition, aware I need to write something about this when I’m done. I’m looking for a crux, something to hang the writing on. There’s a very clever piece using dry ice to make a CD skip. I quite like the music, but this won’t do. I’m told about a piece called Concrete Chunk. It’s a concrete chunk. It’s holding the door of the office open. This is shit, I think to myself. Occasionally, several people are roped in to move it around. What a pain in the arse, I think to myself. The aspirational part of me is losing out to the cynical moron. Need to regain inspiration. I head back downstairs. There’s a close-up of the little dove that used to be on credit cards. This is good, I think to myself, I used to like looking at my mum’s one of these when I was a kid. Hmm, I wonder, do they still put these on credit cards? I take my wallet out. There’s no dove on there. I feel disappointed, but somewhat enlightened. Another room is playing a film about Mexican gangs. Next to it is film about Ikea. What a depressing juxtaposition – how boring are our lives in Britain that artists feel there’s something worthwhile to be had from making a film about Ikea, while in Mexico you go out on the street and you find all sorts of horrible shit going on: Real Life. Of course, real life in this context consists of drugs wars, several thousand murders per month, and the decapitation of police officers. It’s easy to have a reaction to that. It must be a lot easier to corral your reactions to art in Mexico.
I walk into another room and find a tug-of-war going on. This is nice, I think to myself, some entertainment to keep the children amused. I discover later that in fact this is art, too. I protest, but I’m shouted down. I try to imagine why this is art. Are we supposed to look at this as the essential violence of man – that we can only ever succeed at the expense of another? Or is the tension in the rope a metaphor for the unbearable tension of our lives, are we the ribbon in the middle being torn from left to right by competing human pressures? Or is just a game of fucking tug-of-war?
And then it dawns on me that this is the point. That it has little to do with the form or the meaning or the context or the essence. The effect here is not the result of interaction between objects, or between objects and humans. The interesting relationship, as far as I am concerned, is that between the setting and vocabulary. Looking at these pieces of art, we find new ways of describing, new ways of interpreting, and categorising and analysing. This is a fun game, a hobby. It occupies the time of thousands and thousands of professors and students and art critics and artists and anyone who wants to immerse themselves in the pastime of stretching vocabulary to the borders of its logic. The uncertainty I often experience around art is less about what I’m feeling, then, and more about how I’m supposed to rationalise those feelings, translate them into English.
So I look again at the bunf about the exhibition: “Results or outcomes are rarely left to chance; the indiscernible is unacceptable. This rejection of the unforeseen creates a closed system where predictability and predetermination are celebrated.” Filtered through my brain, these sentences are meaningless constructions lain around a collection of nice and interesting, but ultimately pretty random, bits of stuff. The great hypocrisy of this brief is that it is itself an attempt to draw discernibility – through vocabulary – around the meaningless collection of pieces on display. If we follow its command and embrace the unforeseen, then it becomes foreseen. And let’s try to forget the fact that, mid-economic crisis, we actually live in a world horrifically riven with uncertainty and unforeseen consequences. But what wonderful fun is being had with English there! Where else can you get away with this shit but in an art gallery? Brilliant.
I take a step back and reassess this reaction I’m having. I realise this is the same contest happening within me that I spoke of earlier – between wanting to be true to my immediate reactions and aspiring to deeper levels of understanding. And if I’m truly honest then it’s between something that I do indeed have little control over. And that’s between wanting to write something honest, and not wanting to sound like a complete twat.
Eric Randolph
I think I’m supposed to give the outsider’s perspective here, the spontaneous unadulterated reaction of someone who knows close to nothing about art. That’s supposed to be easy: all I have to do is be honest about my impressions. But actually it’s not that easy, because we enter any situation with a clutch of prejudices and interests that distort any notion of honest feeling we might have. And prejudices and interests are not simple either; often they are contradictory and swayed by mood and circumstance. So I walk into the main room of the exhibition and I look up at a big wooden tower sort of a thing, and it’s kind of wonky and has some bits of metal stuck to it and so on, and my initial reaction is to scoff. What am I supposed to do with these bits of wood here? How long am I supposed to look at it before I’ve fulfilled the requisite quota of art appreciation on this piece? It means nothing to me. But then some other prejudices kick in which tell me that I know there’s more to this than the simple construction of the thing itself. That there’s a relationship to the space, that at some level there’s an interaction happening between me and this piece however little my cynicism wishes to acknowledge it; that the mere act of having carried out the task of building it and erecting it and opening the doors to people is an artistic act in which I am complicit. This is the part of me that wants to be considered culturally aware and observant and analytical, the part of my brain that sends me every so often to the Tate Britain to pay £10 and walk around looking at famous things and stroking my beard and adopting that pendulum swing walk that people adopt in art museums, occasionally leaning in to peer closely at some detail of a painting so that others can see that I know what I’m doing.
I continue around the exhibition, aware I need to write something about this when I’m done. I’m looking for a crux, something to hang the writing on. There’s a very clever piece using dry ice to make a CD skip. I quite like the music, but this won’t do. I’m told about a piece called Concrete Chunk. It’s a concrete chunk. It’s holding the door of the office open. This is shit, I think to myself. Occasionally, several people are roped in to move it around. What a pain in the arse, I think to myself. The aspirational part of me is losing out to the cynical moron. Need to regain inspiration. I head back downstairs. There’s a close-up of the little dove that used to be on credit cards. This is good, I think to myself, I used to like looking at my mum’s one of these when I was a kid. Hmm, I wonder, do they still put these on credit cards? I take my wallet out. There’s no dove on there. I feel disappointed, but somewhat enlightened. Another room is playing a film about Mexican gangs. Next to it is film about Ikea. What a depressing juxtaposition – how boring are our lives in Britain that artists feel there’s something worthwhile to be had from making a film about Ikea, while in Mexico you go out on the street and you find all sorts of horrible shit going on: Real Life. Of course, real life in this context consists of drugs wars, several thousand murders per month, and the decapitation of police officers. It’s easy to have a reaction to that. It must be a lot easier to corral your reactions to art in Mexico.
I walk into another room and find a tug-of-war going on. This is nice, I think to myself, some entertainment to keep the children amused. I discover later that in fact this is art, too. I protest, but I’m shouted down. I try to imagine why this is art. Are we supposed to look at this as the essential violence of man – that we can only ever succeed at the expense of another? Or is the tension in the rope a metaphor for the unbearable tension of our lives, are we the ribbon in the middle being torn from left to right by competing human pressures? Or is just a game of fucking tug-of-war?
And then it dawns on me that this is the point. That it has little to do with the form or the meaning or the context or the essence. The effect here is not the result of interaction between objects, or between objects and humans. The interesting relationship, as far as I am concerned, is that between the setting and vocabulary. Looking at these pieces of art, we find new ways of describing, new ways of interpreting, and categorising and analysing. This is a fun game, a hobby. It occupies the time of thousands and thousands of professors and students and art critics and artists and anyone who wants to immerse themselves in the pastime of stretching vocabulary to the borders of its logic. The uncertainty I often experience around art is less about what I’m feeling, then, and more about how I’m supposed to rationalise those feelings, translate them into English.
So I look again at the bunf about the exhibition: “Results or outcomes are rarely left to chance; the indiscernible is unacceptable. This rejection of the unforeseen creates a closed system where predictability and predetermination are celebrated.” Filtered through my brain, these sentences are meaningless constructions lain around a collection of nice and interesting, but ultimately pretty random, bits of stuff. The great hypocrisy of this brief is that it is itself an attempt to draw discernibility – through vocabulary – around the meaningless collection of pieces on display. If we follow its command and embrace the unforeseen, then it becomes foreseen. And let’s try to forget the fact that, mid-economic crisis, we actually live in a world horrifically riven with uncertainty and unforeseen consequences. But what wonderful fun is being had with English there! Where else can you get away with this shit but in an art gallery? Brilliant.
I take a step back and reassess this reaction I’m having. I realise this is the same contest happening within me that I spoke of earlier – between wanting to be true to my immediate reactions and aspiring to deeper levels of understanding. And if I’m truly honest then it’s between something that I do indeed have little control over. And that’s between wanting to write something honest, and not wanting to sound like a complete twat.
Thursday 12 February 2009
The Sad Ghost by Gareth Bell-Jones (fanzine contribution)
THE SAD GHOST
A nightmarish tale by Gareth Bell-Jones
It was nearly midnight. Through the revolving mists of the worry the teak boarding of the old manor occasionally became restless. The old maid who had lived there long ago died of corns, but that was by-the-by. She used to like eating tinned hot dogs. With her passing the manor had become increasingly scary until it sucked all happiness and colour out of the happy woods. The now rickety house was still, apart from the incessant creaking made by a ghost walking around. He still had real human feet and so made creaking noises. He walked through the unsound hallway into the decrepit kitchen to make some tea and stood on a rake. The horror rake whooshed before hitting the ground again behind him. "Woooooooo" he said, thinking (but unable to say).
A full moon hung loosely over the roof, draping the mansion with its pungent space light. Yes, there was no colour. It was black and white. A wolverine ran into the kitchen and ate the rake. It was the only object in the room apart from the kettle which had almost come to a boil. "Wooooooo" the ghost said to the wolverine. "A-Weeeeeeeeeee" the wolverine responded to the ghost. The ghost made the wolverine some ghost tea. The ghost poured it into a bowl which appeared - as if from nowhere. The wolverine lapped it up, greedily unaware that it was boiling its own tongue off. When it had fallen off the wolverine couldn't speak any more. Because of this three ghosts came out of its mouth. "Wooooooooooo" they all said. If you can imagine having three speakers that is what it sounded like.
Lightning struck.
An almighty crash and a nearby church tower collapsed. A farmer walked into the creepy manner and was really scared by all the ghosts and ran away. "wooooo" all the ghosts said. The wolverine ran around in circles. The wolverine could not speak anymore because it didn't have a tongue. A pig appeared - from nowhere. And bit the feet of the ghost. "WoOOOOooOOOooooO!" the ghost exclaimed kicking the pig. The universe ran this way and that. Inside that the earth vibrated. It vibrated very fast and this caused dead bodies to exhume themselves. Still dead but above ground. They all got into the kitchen and made it smell of eggs so all the ghosts and the pig went through the hallway into the lounge. The wolverine still walked round in circles and bumped into all the bodies walking higher and higher until it couldn't walk any more because it was pressed against the ceiling. The room really smelt badly of eggs.
It was now one in the morning and they hadn't got much done yet so they ate. They ate the wolverine because it was good for nothing. The soft tring of a harp flushed from the atrium. It was granddad standing up. He was ten foot tall and very characterfull. He would get rid of these ghosts once and for all he decided. Then he looked at himself in a mirror and he had no reflection. Deciding he needed fresh blood he drank from the pig to get going. Vampires keep dark. Finding he couldn't get much from the disembodied feet he went back to his coffin chair, he fell asleep again. The ghosts flew around the atrium trying to catch each others tails leaving one ghost on the floor because it had feet. The ghost cried air. "Ak-Scaloooooo" granddad snored. "Weeeeeeeeee" the ghosts exclaimed. "Pffffft" the sad ghost cried.
A nightmarish tale by Gareth Bell-Jones
It was nearly midnight. Through the revolving mists of the worry the teak boarding of the old manor occasionally became restless. The old maid who had lived there long ago died of corns, but that was by-the-by. She used to like eating tinned hot dogs. With her passing the manor had become increasingly scary until it sucked all happiness and colour out of the happy woods. The now rickety house was still, apart from the incessant creaking made by a ghost walking around. He still had real human feet and so made creaking noises. He walked through the unsound hallway into the decrepit kitchen to make some tea and stood on a rake. The horror rake whooshed before hitting the ground again behind him. "Woooooooo" he said, thinking (but unable to say).
A full moon hung loosely over the roof, draping the mansion with its pungent space light. Yes, there was no colour. It was black and white. A wolverine ran into the kitchen and ate the rake. It was the only object in the room apart from the kettle which had almost come to a boil. "Wooooooo" the ghost said to the wolverine. "A-Weeeeeeeeeee" the wolverine responded to the ghost. The ghost made the wolverine some ghost tea. The ghost poured it into a bowl which appeared - as if from nowhere. The wolverine lapped it up, greedily unaware that it was boiling its own tongue off. When it had fallen off the wolverine couldn't speak any more. Because of this three ghosts came out of its mouth. "Wooooooooooo" they all said. If you can imagine having three speakers that is what it sounded like.
Lightning struck.
An almighty crash and a nearby church tower collapsed. A farmer walked into the creepy manner and was really scared by all the ghosts and ran away. "wooooo" all the ghosts said. The wolverine ran around in circles. The wolverine could not speak anymore because it didn't have a tongue. A pig appeared - from nowhere. And bit the feet of the ghost. "WoOOOOooOOOooooO!" the ghost exclaimed kicking the pig. The universe ran this way and that. Inside that the earth vibrated. It vibrated very fast and this caused dead bodies to exhume themselves. Still dead but above ground. They all got into the kitchen and made it smell of eggs so all the ghosts and the pig went through the hallway into the lounge. The wolverine still walked round in circles and bumped into all the bodies walking higher and higher until it couldn't walk any more because it was pressed against the ceiling. The room really smelt badly of eggs.
It was now one in the morning and they hadn't got much done yet so they ate. They ate the wolverine because it was good for nothing. The soft tring of a harp flushed from the atrium. It was granddad standing up. He was ten foot tall and very characterfull. He would get rid of these ghosts once and for all he decided. Then he looked at himself in a mirror and he had no reflection. Deciding he needed fresh blood he drank from the pig to get going. Vampires keep dark. Finding he couldn't get much from the disembodied feet he went back to his coffin chair, he fell asleep again. The ghosts flew around the atrium trying to catch each others tails leaving one ghost on the floor because it had feet. The ghost cried air. "Ak-Scaloooooo" granddad snored. "Weeeeeeeeee" the ghosts exclaimed. "Pffffft" the sad ghost cried.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
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