Mel Bochner, US, 1970/2009
They reach forward, tighten their grip.
Smiles alight, an infectious fuse.
The first firework
a flash of orange,
the rush of yellows, reds, blues.
A splash of silver
to bring home
a brand new
year.
Her plate lunch is uneaten, she shakes her head, stretches her arms. She looks closely at it. The mahi-mahi doesn’t look like the fish on her sister’s board shorts, she thinks. She prods it, wondering about the real one she is going to find at Hanauma Bay. She glances at her snorkel gear lying on the bench, imagining the turtles she will wave to and the unicorn fish she will smile at. She is now all smiles and anticipation. Her sister pours soy over her rice and pushes the plate at her. They snigger, pushing their uneaten lunches back and forth. Their mother grins and nods to the waiter. The lau-lau is too bitter. Shrugs all round. They wish they had gone to Kahuku shrimp – hot, spicy and buttery. Perhaps there’s still time.
The Royal Academy of Arts has showcased some awe inspiring exhibitions that have made me unwilling to leave the building. True. On a previous visit I was lucky enough to see a major exhibition by Anish Kapoor (26 September 2009-11 December 2009). Although all his work is colourful, beautiful, magical and evocative, the highlight for me was ‘Shooting into the corner’. The drama of the event eclipsed everything else. Suspended in time we were all electrified and too terrified to look away in case we missed it. When the makeshift canon shot wax onto the pristine white wall there was a collective gasp, followed by laughter, stunned silence and sadness that it was over. The build up and layering of the red wax on the wall was visually unsettling – an apparently violent act and yet the tactile nature of the material made me want to run up and touch the wax. The children next to me leapt with joy at the sheer audacity of it all and asked ‘who’s going to clean that up?’
Today I visited the Academy to view “Earth: Art of a changing world” (3 December – 31 January 2010). The exhibition is a must see – it showcases an amazing range of work by artists from diverse backgrounds. If you thought you had questioned to death the impact of human behaviour on the natural dynamics of the planet … well there’s more. The artists have used video installations, photography and found objects among others to highlight issues ranging from resource use, refugee camps and the changing balance of species populations. You also get a comprehensive, collectible booklet with your ticket. Plus, if you have missed it in the past, you get to see Antony Gormley’s “Amazonian Field” (1992) – I find it creepy, comforting and funny all at once. It also makes me want to grab one of the tiny terracotta figures just to walk round London with it. Who knows why.
Highlights of the exhibition for me included Darren Almond’s “Tide” (2008). Consisting of 567 digital wall clocks, all set to the same time and chiming with a loud click as each minute passes put me in a contemplative mood (yes, well, after it made me jump). Pretty self-explanatory but visually and emotionally disturbing nonetheless. Yao Lu’s “Spring in the City” 2009 is a visual feast. The artist took photographs of rubbish piles covered in green nets and then digitally manipulated the images to resemble traditional landscape paintings. The photograph on display alludes to the consequences of the trajectory of development planning in China and the sheer scale of potential damage. Yet, the photograph itself is extremely beautiful and I couldn’t look away.
I was immediately drawn to Mariele Neudecker’s “400 Thousand Generations” (2009) because of my love of anything contained in a globe – a miniature world in the palm of my hand so to speak. These globes are pretty big and the components are changing gradually. According to the guide book the “work’s title refers to the number of generations it took for photosensitive tissue to evolve into the human eye”. All I could visualise after seeing her installation was the gradual erosion of amazing natural structures all over the world due to pollution. Yet, because it is nature, it remains shockingly beautiful even at the point of total destruction by, well, us.
And if this exhibition wasn’t enough to entice you there is a collection of work by British artist and designer Stuart Haygarth on display (until 30/01/2010). He uses abandoned objects to build some evocative pieces of work. The one I especially loved was a revolving mirror ball made out of 350 smashed wing mirrors. Yes. Go see.
The fluid filled chamber
echoes with the sound of tiny feet
paddling.
A resonating guttural roar,
the flames are raging,
cracking and tearing through teak floors.
My bones feel the snap and snarl of timber
giving way to the fury of heat.
Smoke curls and twists into my nostrils,
searing my skin, but I breathe
deeply
gulping in,
filling my lungs,
my throat scorched and tightening
until I can take no more.
I run out into the air, my chest stretched taut
my face soaked and hot.
I laugh until I cry,
pump my fists and fall to the ground,
watching as the fire rips through the front of the house
sending swirls of ash into the red sky.
At the very corner of the bed
lies the crumpled duvet,
warm and inviting.
You reach over and pour coffee all over it,
grinning feverishly,
shaking and shaking the mug to get the last drops out.
I want to crack open your skull
to let the piranhas loose,
they are feeding on you.
You wrap a scarf around your chest,
pulling it tighter and tighter,
the fibres ache.
I wish I could hug your mind.
3 a.m.
I hear you chuckling in the hallway.
Morpheus weaves a demulcent tale to arrest the pain,
as Remorse sleeps curled, fists tightly clutched. Destiny
sneaks in, breathing deeply, struggling to keep silent,
an eye on Prophecy waiting by the window, nodding to a knowing rhythm.
You light a candle and pad softly up the stairs. Turning suddenly
you trip, fall heavily, as flames start to swallow the floor,
taking over the walls, cracking the paint,
splitting fibres, reaching the room where Remorse,
immersed in soothing dreams, fails to rise.
On the crowded train
the territorially hostile shuffle
and I can see the photo project explode in my mind.
Colours and textures imprinted,
but the container does not give
and it is stuffed
full of boneless sea creatures.
I struggle to find breathing room,
inching my way to the front. Then,
through the glass I see your face,
your hands twirling the shiny metal keys,
your lips a grin, beautiful, a faint green
kissed by the neon light,
as you retreat into the muds,
and leave me to my plight.
Energy unhindered by the endless edits of societal conventions,
that have chalked up the rest in tinker, tiny, pristine boxes.
Of course,
none could hold you
- but then,
none would want to.
Exiled by the instream,
isolated by the sub-group,
rejected by the rejects,
taken on as pet projects,
no one reflects you
and nothing speaks of you.
Yet,
you remain
a scratchy noise
in the plush, modulated background,
threatening to metamorphose,
puzzling forwards decade by decade,
negating the well-worn barriers
- one day you’ll get through …
but, really,
would you want to?
growls at me
and I like it.
Infused with stolen aspirations
struggling to find a path
in dominant sickly sweet
stanzas overladen with melancholy
and overwrought thoughts,
I wish I could hear it out loud.
And touch it.
Skin on skin.
I imagine it sounding like a dense, gritty guitar solo,
or like dusty, fuzzy noise filtering and sparking
through an unseen vent
in the corner
of a crowded room
where nobody reflects the sound
and where nothing fits quite right
and bad poetry provides
welcome respite.
I was in Sloane Square/Kings Road on Saturday, I had wanted to see how it had changed from the brief time I spent there in my early teens. I didn’t recognise it … anyway, I happened to go to the Saatchi Gallery where the exhibition Abstract America was on. All the exhibits were pretty stunning and raised a lot of questions. However, one in particular stood out – “Kiss Trap Kismet” by Sterling Ruby.
Kiss Trap Kismet, Sterling Ruby, 2008
close up, Kiss Trap Kismet, Sterling Ruby, 2008
When I first saw the installation, I was drawn to it by what felt like compelling and overwhelming raw energy. Even on the plinth, it appeared like the installation was going to spill into its surroundings, sending out rising feelers to all edges of the space – taking it over. Amazing rage – thankfully contained on a plinth. I was convinced that the artist was gendered female/identified female. For me the installation appeared to be a dialogue about the outward manifestation of female anger – where, sometimes, it is argued that it is male anger that focuses outwards and female anger is focused inwards. A bonus was that it was shiny and I kept wanting to touch the surface. The installation rocked.
Other interesting pieces were the series of haunting can sculptures by Paul Lee. These pieces felt like a meditation about loss, youth and desire. All lined up in a row, the sculptures looked forlorn and gave off a melancholy feel. And, at the same time I felt like I was viewing an intimate part of someone’s life – so it felt a tad voyeuristic. All in all a really evocative piece of work.
Untitled (Can Sculpture), Paul Lee, 2007
Then there were the Sentinels (Orange, Please Hold) and the Watchman by Ryan Johnson. A feast to the eyes made of plaster bandages. Originally the Sentinels had marker pens tied onto them for people to leave graffiti – it was interesting to read the comments and I felt that it added value to the installations themselves. The Watchman was a little creepy especially with the chains of keys round it’s waist and the hooded coat – I think hoods on anything inanimate look kinda sinister. The orange Sentinel evoked a pleasant feel and Please Hold gave me a sense of living through a nightmare where everyone and everything is completely unreachable. All in all the exhibition was excellent, the gallery space was to die for and it was free – so, accessible to all.
Sentinels and Watchman by Ryan Johnson, 2008
Amy is flustered. She is mid-rant, ‘… this woman from some society for the prevention of cruelty to animals … on radio and she was discussing how they are trying to get mink farming banned here because minks … oh, so unlike cows, piggies and sheep, are not domesticated animals‘, she arches her eyebrows and flings her arms up in disgust. With renewed zeal she continues, ‘So it’s not fair to keep them in cages, unlike piggies, and kill them, unlike cows.’
She places her hands on her hips. Tapping her foot she watches me and continues, ‘Never mind that none of these par-ti-cular minks have ever seen freedom.’ This is her argument and her tone is high pitched. I look up from my book. Noticing my full attention, she continues, ‘I felt like ringing her and asking her does she eat meat? Does she use fly-spray? Sorry, but sometimes the arguments of the dolphin friendlies baffle me … honest.’
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Feet like clay,
cracked, calloused, bruised
uneven
- and hands,
tiny cuts, laced with red dust,
forced grit grates under fingernails.
Parched lips dried and split,
the scorched air burns,
seeps in, tightens skin,
as you break rocks
every
single
day
to build a city in another land,
for the coins clutched
in the palm of your hand.
(of the 1.3 billion people living in absolute poverty around the world, 70 per cent are women – Amnesty International)
