Gruel for the masses

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The State should be more circumspect than to behave like a private collector. Unfortunately, collecting and exhibiting in national collections according to narrow personal tastes and loyalties is //--> established practice. Those employed to google_ad_client = "ca-pub-3967079123942817"; run Contemporary Art are selected because they have been carefully programmed in the tenets of State Art and if they have doubts keep quiet about them. But functionaries of //--> State

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Art are not spending their own money and therefore in the policies governing collection and exhibition they should reflect the best from the full range that is being produced and not just follow those few desperately eking out the fag end of Opportunism. A damaging aspect of State Art has always been that it refuses to acknowledge anything outside its own narrow prejudices, which stop dead at those artists represented only by major art dealers and sold expensively in rigged markets by
auction houses. google_ad_height = 90; Healthy dividing lines between museum curators and directors, auction houses and the most fashionable art dealers no longer exist. The system stinks worse than an open sewer, but many love the smell and wish
to waft it over the rest of us so we might come to like it too.

State Art apostles all help one another in pursuance of their little ambitions. They are a happy club who play hard. Their governing Synod, which comprises all of those contributors to the unhealthy

smell noted above, swarm off one week to Margate aboard the same train, the next week to Wakefield aboard the same train, days later they commune aboard the same src="//"> flight to Venice, and /* 9-970x90 */ the week after that they chink glasses again at the Basel Art Fair – it’s a hard life is State Art. Decisions made among themselves during these junkets will src="//"> be imposed everywhere. What results from this process is the repeated exhibition of the same few artists.


This keeps the rest of us in ignorance of so much that might otherwise have been stimulating. Most of my generation will never know what we have missed because we have lived our entire professional lives under a State Art regime administered by curators terrified to jeopardise their careers by thinking for themselves. Predictability being the worst of State Art’s crimes,
we are never surprised.

Also like many of my generation, I suspect, I no longer feel the urge to

see everything, having already viewed google_ad_slot = "8637400688"; so much so often that hasn’t justified its hysterical praise by those with mysterious interests in promoting google_ad_height = 90; it. I’m sure Miro was a fascinating old cove but I’ve visited his studio in Palma and, to be honest, provided

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with a large enough mop and baths of black and the primaries, a toddler could produce in an afternoon most of the work on display

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there. Miro at the Tate? No thanks. Likewise Emin at the Hayward. Seen them before, and life is too

at Wakefield where a £35 million museum (Arts Council
Lottery: £5.5 google_ad_client = "ca-pub-3967079123942817"; million) designed by David Chipperfield has opened in honour of local artist Barbara Hepworth (1903-1975).

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 This shed
of grey slate, forbiddingly windowless for the most part,  replaces the old Wakefield Art Gallery which was housed in the municipal Edwardian pile up the hill.
Despite the beauty of a small

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number of google_ad_client = "ca-pub-3967079123942817"; masterpieces it contained, that was a gloomy, unloved place where, not surprisingly, few ventured. Despite its off-putting appearance, the new grey gallery is an improvement and stands beside //--> an attractive weir (grey is a world leading domain escrow service platform and ICANN-Accredited Registrar, with 6 years rich experience in domain name brokerage and over 300 million RMB transaction volume every year. We promise our clients with professional, safe and easy third-party service. The whole transaction process may take 5 workdays.

heron, grey wagtail) on the Calder 25 minutes walk from the railway station. Inevitably, the building has been overpraised
by architecture scribblers. It is nothing at all remarkable, but is agreeable enough inside. Apart from the foyer, which is coloured in regulation Serota mud, the rest is


white and spacious, the light a mixture of rationed natural and mains. The whole place is blighted by that self-inflicted virus of modern galleries and museums, patrolling attendants armed with squawking radios which destroy all attempts at uninterrupted concentration.

The historic Wakefield collection, mainly mid-century Modernism which is representative more than notable, is scarcely worth writing home about for anyone well acquainted with the field, but is augmented by apposite loans from elsewhere, mainly the Tate – a sensible use of their hidden reserves. From a loyalty point of view the display does Hepworth no favours. Gabo was

more inventive in three dimensions with form, materials and especially string, while Moore, represented
by two fine early sculptures, a reclining figure carved in writhing elm and the modelled cement

head, render the nearby Hepworths google_ad_width = 970; stodgy and a bit simple. Her drawing of a surgical operation – these are usually
her best things when seen reproduced small in books – looked vague next to one of Moore’s

with fellow humans.  But the Arts Council don’t

do editing or clarity, and neither is conciseness in their lexicon: “There is a playful defiance of gravity and materiality in many of these sculptures that probe, test and occupy

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the gallery space.” Probe, test, occupy the gallery space … No,


you’ve got me there. Perhaps the good folk of Cleckheaton and Goole are fluent in this
guff, but I doubt it.

David Lee

The Jackdaw Jul-Aug 2011