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Poor John Who, or indeed what, can this be, that I now see, and hear, far below, snuffling through the dank mould and undergrowth of the art wood? Why, I do believe it is the eponymous Prodger’s Vole, a shy, short-sighted, furry little creature, only very rarely seen (and how lucky we are to catch a glimpse) and now on an errand for the Sunday Telegraph. If I hear aright, he is prodgering on about Constable, an ‘important landscapist’ he tells us, but one, in his considered view, not quite up to painting faces ìwith equal facilityî. Oh dear: is this what they teach ’em at the Courtauld still, or Warwick, or Leeds Poly or wherever it was he first went in hope of learning how to look at pictures? But he does have quite a way with words, I must say. ìNature obsessed the painter in him, and he looked at it with a hungry, lover’s eyeî, he squeaks on – which does leave us rather worrying which poor John had left behind: his sandwiches, or his comely Phoebe. But we must go on: ìAs a result he could see those things that less besotted (yes, ‘besotted’ – I know, I know) artists couldn’t – the different shade of green on the underside of a leaf (no, not made up, I promise) or an aqueous cast to the sky Öî Must I go on? ìHis most workaday portraits Ö wear [his] lack of enthusiasm heavily. The spark could be missing even when he painted children, who (sic) as a species (sic again), he was fond of.î Of the group portrait of the three Barker (or Baker: take your pick – he gives both) children, he says they ìare stiff and shy, as if they sensed the painter’s uneaseÖ.î They were a long time sensing, I suspect – it’s a big painting. ìThe handling is flat and ill-defined (as if he should know), the setting and background landscape patchily rendered, the affection between the children undermined by fudge and scumbleÖî Of the rest, Ö ìtoo frequently hands are clumsily disposed Ö poses as stiff as their Sunday clothes Ö. [he] dutifully copying the unprepossessing physiognomies of paying clients Öî Ah: so that’s it, and oh for a few aristos and gents and pretty ladies. And the robust, honest, fully modelled realism of the later portraits is neither here nor there. That wily old Sunday Telegraph ferret, Graham-Dixon, is apparently away for a bit, chasing other rabbits. Come back Andrew, all is forgiven (well, almost all). Serota Towers Mark II Oh dear: what’s this I hear? The Weasel Tribe that is Southwark Council has now ìstrongly recommended for approvalî the revised plans for Tate Modern 2. ìThe proposed new (bit of a tauto. there, I fear) building will be an extraordinary (no doubt) and unique (let’s hope so) addition to London’s townscape.î The Birds of Paradise of the press office assure us that ìin response to a revised brief, and in consultation with artists and curators, (of course) the architects (Herzog and de Meuron (who else?) have refined designs to create a dramatic new museum for the 21st century.î But I always thought the Tate M itself was to be that very NMft21cy. And there’s still all that wasted space as you go in, into which an internal extension could be dropped – and for rather less than the £74m already raised – a third of what will now be needed, so they say (ho, ho). Ah, but at the heart of it all are to be ìthe unique oil tanks (??**?) of the former power station, which will be retained as raw (**?!!?) spaces for art, and from which the new building will rise.î So that’s all right then, and yes, I will have that drink after all. ìThe faÁade ... echoes that of the original power station, but uses brick in a radical new way (better make it a double) by creating a perforated brick lattice through which the building will glow (would you mind leaving the whole bottle?) in the evening.î Oh, and it ìwill set new benchmarks Ö for both sustainability and energy use.î I blame global warming. Mother Hen I’d rather thought, or even hoped, that that fussy self-important old Biddy, Susan Hiller, had flapped off into the sunset, clucking to herself and absent-mindedly laying the odd egg in the wood pile: or perhaps had somehow shut herself in the coop, for I wouldn’t have liked to think the Fox had got her – it had all seemed rather quieter than usual at her end of the chicken run. But no. Here she is again, with a book this time, on ‘The Provisional Texture of Reality’. Well, she should know: her grasp of it always seemed pretty provisional to me. With a knowing look that could mean anything (have you noticed that sort of raised-eyebrow way hens have of looking at you, and then scuttling off with a huffy shrug?), all she’d do was set out quite neatly a few old postcards and a box or two of odds and ends, and just leave us to fathom it out. Now she’s giving us her latest collection, of texts this time, ìin which she interrogates science, magic, cinema, the senses, ethics and (wait for it) the continuing lure of psychoanalysisî. What a hero. I do like that ‘interrogates’ – it’s that beady eye again, and the bright light and, oooh, that sharp beak. But, from science to the shrink, one does feel for the poor victims. The heart bleeds. There should be a law. In fact I thought there was. The collection ìdocuments Hiller’s interventions in current debates around the shifting roles of art and theory, shedding new light on the interface between critical writing and visual art practice.î Well, just fancy sitting strapped in the chair, with that bright light shining in your eyes, and having that sort of stuff clucked at you, along with the occasional peck – I don’t know about Science or Ethics, but no need for 90 days: I’d tell all, straight away. Here We Go Again From deep in the muddy reed-beds of the South Bank come furtive quacks and croaks announcing the selectors of the next British Art Show for late next year. It is a treat that comes round once every 5 years, which is quite soon enough, thank you very much, and seems to get narrower and narrower, with each return. Once upon a time, when the world was young and all, it was quite wide in scope, intended as an individual take on what was going on, by artists young and old, famous and unknown, cutting edge and quite blunt. So whose turn is it to be this time? Lisa le Feuvre and Tom Morton are, we learn, the people’s choice, a pair of bright young chicks from those comfy nests, Goldsmiths’, where little Lisa is a professorette on the Postgraduate Curatorial Programme, and the Hayward Gallery itself, where Tom Tit is now a curator too. Both have ìearned reputations for their thinking and writing about artî, says Head Wader, Ralph Redshank, ìas well as the intelligence, knowledge and ingenuity they bring to organising exhibitions.î So that’s all right then. ìWe hope to explore and expand the possibilities of what a large ‘time and place’ exhibition might be,î they cheep in unison, ìat a moment when urgent new voices in British art are making themselves heard.î Oh those urgent voices, prophesying doom. Still Stuck on Mudflats More muffled quacks from the bulrushes give word of this summer’s treat at the Water’s Edge, which is to be no less than ìan investigation of the inside of the creative mindÖ Visitors will be able to immerse themselves in the unique mindscape of each artist Ö The installations present different ways in which artists construct images of their own minds, shedding light on their creativity and inviting visitors to explore their own thought processes.î How very kind. Ten international artists take part, which is to say one or two we might have heard of, among them, ìiconic (sic) Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, whose work ìis characterised by compulsive iterations (look it up) of certain motifs, such as polka dots and infinite nets (??), which the artist (sic) says is the result of hallucinations she has experienced since childhoodî, which may be some sort of reassurance, or then again, may be not. She is to fill a mirrored corridor with spotty balloons, and one of the Hayward’s terraces with spotty sculptures. Oh yes, and 25 trees along the riverbank are to be covered in red and white polka dots. Hmmm, quite a mind to wander into, you might say. Roll up, roll up: who'll be first? Any volunteers? Another is our old friend Keith Turkey Prize Tyson, who is yet another one ìparticularly interested in the creative processî. Oh dear. Join the club. One does wonder just how particular is particular. He is to show a new series of drawings, ìincluding a gigantic composite image of a brain, set within a landscape. His installation also features a sculpture representing the artist as a young boy, and is accompanied by sound pieces of him talking about each piece as it is made.î Talking to himself, eh? We all know what that means. Back to Nature Look out, here comes old Corky the Stork, flapping wearily over the tree-tops. Ooops, he’s dropped the baby. No, it’s all right: it’s only a tatty copy of the Summer RA Magazine, one of the many ragbags with which Cocky lines his nest and blocks up the chimney – good for the planet and all that: the only CO2 emissions are his own. So what is the ClichÈ King of the Chimney Pots on about this time? Oh yes: it’s Bristol Longshanks, who is coming to the Tate again, and something called ‘Radical Nature’ at the Barbican, which together give him a handy excuse to flap on about artists and the great outdoors. Let’s see. ìPlenty of hostile voicesî; ìquick to jeerî; ìwhole notion [of] long lonely walksî; ìwild terrainî; ìremote landscapeî; ìwidespread ridiculeî; ìwestern nations Ö hungry for epic plane journeys across the planetî; ìboots firmly on the groundî; ìcarrying only his tentî; ìessential suppliesî; ìfirst-hand relationship with natureî; ìuninhabited regionsî; ìmaterial found en routeî; ì[works] that responded to the innate character of their locationsî: - and that’s only the first paragraph. ìToday the seminal importance of Long's approach is widely hailed, and his major exhibition at Tate Britain will be relished by many.î I fear it will. Vintage Corkage Then it’s Bomberg’s turn. After the Great War, ìhaving witnessed traumatic slaughter at first hand (oh for second-hand witness, and untraumatic slaughter), Bomberg realised that the machine age was capable of unleashing ArmageddonÖ Returning to nature, he scrutinised with avid fascination the space, forms and sunlight in front of him (to say nothing of those behind), renegotiating (yes, renegotiating) his relationship with a rural world far removed from his metropolitan homeÖ. And the appalling advent of further destruction during the Second World War made him even more determined Ö to rediscover a redemptive accord with the natural world.î I’m not making this up, you know: I don’t think I could. ìWith prophetic insight, Bomberg became convinced that the world would be doomed if humanity did not rediscover Ö life in the natural world.î So it’s on with the wellies, eh? ìIn this respect he can be seen as the heir of Constable and Turner, both of whom resolutely took themselves out of their studios and benefited from studying nature outside, in all weathers.î Did they really? Well: if you say so. Carry On Up The Ecosystem There’s no stopping Corky, once he’s got going. The Barbican’s ‘Radical Nature’ show is to cover ì40 years of artists’ responses to ‘the increasingly evident degradation of the natural world’î, he quacks enthusiastically, if Storks quack. ìAs early as the mid-1970s, the architectural collective Ant Farm planned a visionary, solar-powered research centre called Dolphin Embassy. Photographs show Jim Nollman and Nancy Calderwood playing ‘water instruments’ in the Sea of Cortez, a haven for dolphins.î Well, all good clean fun for Jim and Nancy with their water instruments – we’re all fairly broad-minded these days – but one does feel for the dolphins. After you with the photos, Cocky. ìThe desire of artists to have a direct impact on the increasingly vulnerable planet was shared by Joseph Beuys, who energetically (???) grew trees and made ‘Honey Pump in the Workplace’ with the aid of two ship’s engines and two tons of honey.î The trick, I suppose, is always to make sure you have materials that respond to the innate character of the location. Beuys, they say, was rather good at that. Oh: here come Buckminster Dome with his ìglobal perspectivesî, and Henrick Hakansson (?) with his ìalarming visions of the ecosystem’s fragilityî: ie. tree trunks – ìthe forms of once-verdant trees, plants and leaves are here tipped on their side to thrust out at us (Oooooh) horizontally (Oooooh). [He] is determined to shock us into a visceral awareness of planetary crisis.î We share his pain. Can’t wait. Grow Bag And here is Agnes Denes on her new allotment. ìBack in 1982, [she] planted and harvested two acres of wheat in downtown Manhattan in ‘Wheatfield – a Confrontation. Battery Park Landfill’. The Barbican hopes to repeat the exercise, planting a wheat field adjacent to the centre’s lakeside terrace.î She is, so Corky tells us, ìfollowing the simple, yet potent, example set by Hans Haake in 1969, when he made a memorable installation from an earth cone covered in newly-grown grass.î But it seems doomy old Prophet Bomberg was right after all. ìThe accelerating forces of destruction should never be underestimatedî groans Cocky. Haake, he sighs, soon came to the conclusion ìthat even the most polemical artists cannot save the world on their own.î You can say that again. Oh yes, and last of all there is Starling Simon perched on the window sill. He thought there weren’t enough Spanish rhododendrons in Scotland, it seems, while the wicked Scotch thought there were too many for their own good and set about them with the weed-killer. So he ìproposed setting a structure afloat on Loch Lomond to save [them] from complete eradication. He called this beneficent work ‘Island for Weeds (Prototype)’ and doubtless (pretty certain, I’d say) regarded it as a symbol of hope. However, his proposal was, ominously (oh dear), rejected.î Perhaps he should try Virginia Water – there are so many rhododendrons there, no one would notice. Canny people, the Scotch. Corky has been writing like this, with such profound insight, I readily admit, and such a way with words, for the past 40 years. I blame Global Warming; the trouble is, so does he. SATS Key Stage 1: Art Vocabulary – notion: epic: location: relationship: seminal: renegotiate: advent: redemption: collective: visionary: research: visceral: solar: verdant: earth cone: adjacent: installation: beneficent: ominous: rhododendron. Heads Down Who’s this, blundering through the bushes far below. Hello, its old Sir Struthio Camelus Howardiensis, or Hodgkin’s Ostrich as we know and love him, a strange fat and cantankerous bird who has, I’m told, quite a wicked peck and kick about him – so if you can see his head above ground, and he sees you, take care: you never know. According to a scrap of paper just blown by on the breeze from Alan Cristea in Cork Street, he is ìone of the most important painters and print-makers working todayî, so there. It’s certainly an importance he has always taken very seriously himself, just in case no one else does, though they always do. He is, apparently, ‘famously reluctant’ to talk about his work, so, not talking about his work, he says ìmy subject-matter is simple and straight-forwardî. He can say that again – it’s always the same, which is to say a swirl and a splodge and a dot or two, all done in the best possible taste. ìIt ranges from views through windows,î he non-speaks on, ìlandscapes, occasional still-lives, memories of holidays, encounters with interiors (he should look where he’s going) and art collections (insured I hope), other people (oops), other bodies (steady on), love affairs (oh dear), sexual encounters (I say) and emotional situations of all kinds.î Strewthio just about sums it up. He shows his ‘largest and most ambitious work to date’ this summer, which is bit ominous. Can there be still more to come? Called As Time Goes By, it ìcelebrates the idea that the world will always have room for lovers despite the stresses of daily life and the passage of time.î How sweet. It’s five panels are the largest works ever made in a combination of acrylic paint, aquatint and carborundum embossing, whatever that is. Isn’t Nature wonderful. Don’t let the you-know-whats (begins with a b) grind you down, as they say. | |||||
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Moping Owl All of this site is | |||||
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