I Might Not Know Much About Art


I was asked to write an editorial for http://www.whoamagonline.com – my brief was “something about art…”

I was watching a natural history programme the other evening; of the type where the out-of-his-comfort-zone Westerner is constantly amazed by the survival skills of the people who’ve lived in the area in question for hundreds of generations. In amongst the subtly patronising comments and sweeping vistas so essential to such a chunk of television (North Greenland in this instance), invariably we are invited to be revolted by the base nature of their eating habits. Bruce, our host, was offered the eyeball of a recently dispatched seal. Whilst it didn’t appear to be valued as a delicacy, it was apparent that one of the Inuit hunters was giving up something he considered special. Bruce didn’t hesitate, and sucked the contents of the eyeball down. And with it, he balled his eyes up, retched a little and generally made sure that his hosts knew what he thought of their little treat. I’ve had dinner guests like that, but I was asking them to appreciate my chicken curry, and they could reasonably have expected their meal to have been edible.

Serve up seal eyeballs to a restaurant critic at any NY restaurant, and (unless they are Anthony Bourdain or suffering from the most serious case of Emperor’s New Clothes) the resulting review will be unfavourable at best, a simple cartoon of spluttering Bruce at worst. You’re wondering what the fuck I’m on about, so perhaps I should cut to the chase; different people like different things, and this is the only truth about art.

Take the case of Damien Hirst. Much like my dinner guests anticipated that eating my food would not lead to prolonged visits to the bathroom, I was expecting the recent Damien Hirst No Love Lost, Blue Paintings exhibition to be challenging and witty. Unfortunately they were mediocre pastiches of Francis Bacon, as if copied for a high school art project. This was compounded by the fact that Hirst had spent a small fortune persuading the Wallace Collection to show the pieces. That these paintings are his own work, rather than the product of his workshops, is telling. The work preceding was the spectacular For The Love Of God; maybe he set the bar too high? The work after is the very similar For Heaven’s Sake which smacks of desperation. Oh, Damien, how confusing. But this is all my opinion. Art is subjective, and you and I can like what we want. And art critics sometimes forget that.

Robert Mapplethorpe was able to divide opinion like almost no other. In the 1980s it seemed every accessible published word was written by the shocked moral majority; the same breed that delights in taking offence at issues large and small in the 2010s, Twittering horror, emailing outrage and registering digital disgust. It’s true that the photography of Mapplethorpe was challenging, and some of the later work, especially of children, flirted with the very boundaries of decency. However, unless one actively seeks out this work alone, stumbling across the nudes is highly unlikely. Many people will have seen his touching portraits of Patti Smith and developed an understanding of his work as a whole, rather than being wilfully upset by the homoerotic images. I was in San Francisco at Fulsom Fair time, a couple of years ago. There with work for a conference on marine fuels (yes folks, some of us have lived the dream, tasted true manna), three of my colleagues decided to go to the fair; middle-class, straight white girls from London off to gawp and point and whisper at the strange gay men. I declined the invitation to go, as I don’t approve of zoos, human or otherwise. They returned ashen-faced and faux-corrupted. I asked them what they had expected, “Well, not that”, was the reply. Within three minutes, there were 3 digital cameras in front of me, accompanied by a commentary of all the disgusting and vile acts committed in public – all looked like fucking good fun, literally. My opinion was completely different to theirs, but was torn apart as invalid. As the evening wore on, more drink taken, I lost my patience. “Don’t tell me what to think,” was my petulant response, starting in motion an untenable situation that led to my eventual resignation. To be told how to respond to anything – art, life, anything – is to assume a lack of intelligence, a lack of sense. Or, worse, it is the arrogant belief that the critic’s subjective opinion is the only one worth considering.

Jeff Koons’s self-portrait photographs with his then lover, Cicciolina are far less shocking to me than his ambiguous sculpture of Michael Jackson and Bubbles. My mother, my nephew and a legion of fans will most certainly see it through different lenses. No doubt some people see the epic seascapes painted by JMW Turner in his later years as the daubings of a near-blind, over-praised old man – I have sat for an age in front of just one painting, endlessly intrigued by this brush-stroke taking wave to cloud, questioning whether the brilliance of painting with failing sight can be regarded as the true beginning of Impressionism.

You’ll have to excuse me for a slightly UK-centric look at what must be a global occurrence, but such is my frame of reference. We have an annual art award, The Turner Prize, which never fails to get the more reactionary mainstream press hitting the “be outraged” key for the chattering classes. Over the years the media used by nominees has included elephant dung (Chris Ofili); concrete (Rachel Whiteread’s internal cast of a house); bronze (the Chapman Brothers’ Death which was painted to look like the blow up dolls and dildo that they had cast; a bed (Tracey Emin); and pottery (Grayson Perry). Not, “provocateurs” Chapman Brothers. Not, “controversial” Tracey Emin. Not, “challenging” Grayson Perry. I’ll be the one to decide how provoked, shocked or challenged I am by a piece of art.

However, even those who like to think they live outside “the system” or recognised art establishment aren’t immune to foisting their opinions on us. Protests about the Turner Prize are not limited to the playfully ignorant press. Happily, this is done with a wit and knowingness that words alone cannot convey. The much feted graffiti artist Banksy had one of his finer moment when he stencilled “Mind The Crap” on the steps of the Tate before the prize-giving one year; something which might have already come back to haunt him, may do in the future, or may mark him down as a hypocrite. You decide.

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A Snack Whilst Driving


As he left the Tesco Express he reached into his pocket and thumbed his key fob, clicking him access to his driver’s side door. He pulled it open and dumped his plastic bag onto the passenger seat. Standing between the door and the interior, Shaw took a glance around, feeling more guilty party than hunting policeman. No one saw him, and he fell into the car, pulling his body around with a practiced swing from the steering wheel. With the key stashed in the ignition, he took a sausage roll from the bag and let the greasy pastry sit between his lips, the thick smell drift into his nostrils and even stared at the brown food down the length of his nose. As his teeth delivered his first mouthful, his eyes fell shut and dopamine flooded his brain, satisfaction his mood. For a few nanoseconds Shaw was nothing – gloriously void, nothing, an atom in an infinite universe. But the feeling was like greased lightening, and Shaw finished the rest of the junk in less than a minute, fruitlessly chasing that initial feeling. He pulled a Pepperami out of the bag, and pushed it clear of its sheath and down his throat equally quickly. A briefer, sharper pin prick of pleasure accompanied this snack, and Shaw began to rationalise.

The journey back into town was about 20 minutes, studded with patches of immobility at traffic lights. This meant that whilst the thick milkshake was gripped between his thighs, on the passenger seat the coleslaw could sit against the backrest and a couple of sandwiches could remain within reach nearby. The pouch of chicken bites were opened and placed back in the plastic bag, as was the plastic tray of assorted sliced meats; chorizo, prosciutto and salami. Bags of pork scratchings, Mini Cheddars and Twiglets were opened and allowed free in the plastic bag. A small bucket of rocky road bite-sized treats sat next to the coleslaw, without its lid. Finally, a packet of premium tortilla chips was prised apart, to be used as a fork for the mayonnaise heavy coleslaw. This was the one flaw in the meal, and Shaw resolved to only consume this dish when stationary. It needed two hands, after all. He felt dreadful already; on the near horizon was a sugar crash, dragging his guilt further under to depression. Then there would be the firm, utter commitment that that was the last time. He was getting ahead of himself however; how was he to enjoy this moment with fears of the future. What did it say in Desiderata? “But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.” Not really the future, he thought, but appropriate. Or was it? “Imaginings” can be regarded as the future, he decided. And his were dark; the darkest times were always before a session. Some crap about the darkest time of night being before the dawn sprung to mind, but almost without realising, Shaw was on the road and pushing a large slice of salami into the shape of a flower as his mouth enveloped it.

Shaw wiped his fingers on the chamois cloth that he took from the door pocket. He had to reach across his body with his left hand, but kept his eyes on the road ahead, keeping the car to the correct side of the cat’s eyes. Not one bump. The brightening of the red tail lights ahead bought a terrific surge of excitement to him. He palmed a handful of chicken bites into his face, only one spilling free and rolling the length of his tie before lodging in the fold of his trouser fly. He found it, blindly, and after depositing the errant strings of flesh into his moist cavern. As he braked, the absolute control of the car was the complete reverse of Shaw’s ability to control his appetite. Stopped, he took a handful, too large, of tortillas. He half dipped, half poured the coleslaw onto them and crammed them in. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and Shaw’s eyes darted from the rear-view mirror to the massed red lights ahead. Three cars ahead of him, Shaw could see his wife’s car, the back door adorned with the distinctive legged-fish symbol encasing the name Darwin. He just looked at it for a few seconds, checking, re-checking and then breathed in hard. Tortilla dust tickled his throat and coleslaw got pulled so far down his windpipe that he coughed like a first time smoker. Saliva flecked the windscreen, chunks of carrot hit the dashboard and corn-based chip went everywhere.