ZINGERpresents- 0.08014440536499023 ˚WL – 51.52841035161011 ˚NB 4.895009994506836 ˚OL – 52.356377979185666 ˚NB

Text in art. This show cheered me up no end so I start chatting to the curator. The curator tells me it’s about giving up control/authorship and that the artists have been influenced by On Kawara. I say its about the participants visitors taking time to read the work, , I think the main thing is that it prompts a discussion. In Martijn in ‘t Veld ‘s Reading on Kawara there is a photocopy of the front page of a library book showing the date stamps. I only realised the next day why this was significant, once I had looked up On Kawara in an article by Adrian Searle.

Younh-Hae Chang- Heavy Industries ‘SUBJECT: HELLO version Z’ Here is one of those spam emails you get projected as a film, phrase by phrase, being read out as well with background music. As you take the time to read you feel yourself  getting sucked into the emotional blackmail of the email, which normally you would avoid and feel yourself being ‘swindled’ but laughing at the same time. Zinger has given over its website to showing another of these films.

Dan Rees ‘The Postman’s Decision is Final’ two sided postcard sent back and forth between two addresses for a year. I don’t even know if I’m right about this but it kept me thinking all afternoon. In the end postman decides whether it reaches the gallery or not or somewhere else.

The show included an essay by Freek Lomme,

‘As stated, art in itself proposes to radically bring forth meaningful matter via methods. This total sum may be produced by one, the artist, or more. The physical place and the author are irrelevant. They mainly have to fit to the method implied. The major vulnerability of the artistic objective might just lie within the receiver: does he even want to engage at all?’

Do I even want to read this work, find out what it is or do I want to rush on, finish my lunch hour. ˚

I also went to see:

White Cube G&G the rest ruder than the first St. James’ bit, took some pictures with my mobile phone. I love the footballer turned into something pornographic, the oil can advert one at the end at first off putting, looks like a Castrol advert.

Flowers East Hollowsphere-Jennifer Taylor horrible giant dusty balloons that reminded me of childrens’ parties and carved out wax spheres with tiny mincing machines inside.

Melinda Gibson Lamenting a Loss This was Polaroid photographs that have been smudged before the picture has set. You’re supposed to stare at them trying to see the image that’s been lost which is what happens, I guess. The titles are names of people which goes back to the text art idea.

Dalston Mill

This week’s gallery visits

Agnes Denes -Dalston Wheatfield –  This windy slope reminded me of when we were [young] building our house. We had a patch of grass about 3 ft square we brought home in the back of a landrover from North Staffordshire, to be the beginning of our garden. The rest of the site was ground up clinker which is just what this place is.

This patch of nearly full-grown wheat looks a bit like those clumps of hair you imagine they sew into a man’s bald head, or weave-on hair extensions which is appropriate for Dalston I suppose. The size of a London garden, you can see the curve of the railway junction from the shape of the buildings that once used to be beside it. The railway from Broadgate used to join the North London line in Matalan car park. The patch of wheat would have made much more impact in Matalan car park- a bit of a missed opportunity there. Madeleine Bunting’s article in the Guardian has already gleaned (get it?) enough comments but I half doubt if the motives for the wheatfield are about raising consciousness or being artistic.  As it is the only people I see going in are trendy local arty types in the know. For the passers-by there’s a tiny door and a yellow coated security guard by the peace mural.

They’re going to make bread out of the wheat I guess, there is a kitchen and a windmill and a DJ and a bar in the rain. Tweets from some real bread enthusiasts :

@collegegarden in Cambridge harvesting their 44m2 of bearded wheat Soisson & milling it to bake Local Loaves for Lammas

Off to 2000Trees tmrw, so remember – #followfriday @RealBread & on Sat, check out Dan Lepard at the Dalston Mill & CherryDay

Lammas means loaf-mass today. Are they going to say mass at the Dalston Wheatfield? That would round off the art-climate change confusion nicely.

The Plinth, the Mall and Mason’s Yard

For today’s trip to the exhibitions I had a companion, my husband, but the bus was so slow we got off early and walked through Trafalgar square to have a look at Anthony Gormley’s One and Other which has caused a lot of chat. Unfortunately today the Modern Jesus Army had caused a lot of noise which took away from the spectacle of the fourth plinth. It was a man doing an oil painting of Trafalgar square. For some reason he looked better from the back, underneath, posed in front of his easel.

To the ICA, which happened to be near and slipped nicely into see Poor. Old. Tired. Horse. I thoroughly recommend you click on this link which is all about text in art, the concrete poets and Ian Hamilton Finlay who’s work is in the first room. A scale drawing of a fishing boat with notes of all the letters and numbers written on the side of the boat. We really enjoyed the typewriter art ‘Shooting the script’ by Carl Andre who did the bricks ..remember?  I suppose some people do still have typewriters in order to do the work. To get your own typewriter and try something similar would feel like copying but I’d like to try.

Husband was over the moon about FAINTGIRL and IGGY FATUSE, two posters from Janice Kerbel. The interesting thing about text art like this is you have to take time to read the text. You can’t take down the text and read it at home or buy a copy to read later, although sometime you feel as if you want to. No one reads it aloud to you either except maybe Bruce Nauman but he wasn’t included this exhibition. Text slows you down, the concentration is different somehow. People interacted with each other as they finished reading, saying ‘Wow if I’d typed like that I would have got the sack.’ If the page has a recognisable genre like the Faintgirl poster it’s easier to understand. If the text turns out not to say much it makes you feel let down. I felt a bit let down by well  …Frances Stark, I must explain, specify, rationalize, classify..   

Well which is it? Next we went to the White Cube to see Gilbert & George. The streets are so crowded in summer. Is London the centre of the world? Even the Mall had crowds of people walking either side and that’s a broad street. Once safely inside the hush of Mason’s Yard, we thought we just want to see the gallery. My partner had never been there, but I really love Gilbert & George. They are almost my neighbours since they eat every evening in the restaurant at the end of my road. Then they wait at the bus stop for the 67.

The work this time is composed of things that are so familiar and precious , the streets around Spitalfields, medals, branches of plane trees and their own bodies. Text appears in these pictures too: the titles like ‘Street Party’ that tell of a contemporary wry wit are part of the work. The artists wear suits covered in writing, some Bengali, some bits of the A-Z, some graffiti. The work shows compassion towards the communities that live around them, the way a small range of experiences can reflect our own nature.

Lulu

 I had an idea I liked Alban Berg: he was a pupil of Shoenberg. I’ve seen Wozzeck twice. So I had a strong hunch I would love Lulu. Is it because I like expressionist German plays, or the old opera/ballet story, woman who loves, gets into big trouble and causes unhappiness and death? (The story of Lulu comes from two plays of Frank Wedekind, Erdgeist and Pandora’s Box). Anyway I bought tickets for Lulu at the Royal Opera House.

Then I discover curtain up at 6:30 – a tall order for Monday. There was nothing for it but to sink into my red plush seat, concentrate, let the music teach me what it’s all about. Which is exactly what happened. My companion and I poured over the luxurious red programme in between acts, lapping up our ice cream but it wasn’t really necessary. Somehow at the very bottom of understanding and concentration, my mind still full of nonsense from work, the grand drama dragged me upwards and upwards. Think of all those synapses being stretched and bent and shoved with so many things happening at once. 

There was very little action at the beginning which turned out right; the drama arrived through the orchestra conducted by Antonio Pappano and incredible performances from all the cast. I especially enjoyed the animal trainer [Peter Rose] and Schigolch [Gwynne Howell] seemed genuinely decrepit as he struggled on and off stage. This made his character even more creepy. Was he Lulu’s father or lover?

Lulu  hardly moved. The single chair on stage is claustrophobic, no where for Lulu to sit except on the lap of a man. It seems as if there is no where for her to go, she’s trapped on the stage while all the other characters try to gain something from their relationship with her. Even her portrait is just a circle of light, as if no one is really looking but taking it to mean whatever they want. When the Countess stands in the light herself at the end this was especially chilling. The sparseness of the production helped with the gradual build up of intensity. I almost leapt out of my seat.

Do you know how to blanket stitch?

After the Estorick I crept on a very slow bus to the White Cube, Mason’s Yard. for Tracey Emin’s show. No peering here. This atmosphere was all loud voices and posh scent. I’m obviously not used to St. James’ gallery up market tempo. There was a jittery animation and the title in green neon. Downstairs the huge work begins. That filled me with huge respect, reminded me,  how authoratitive.

I completely disagree with the Telegraph’s comment, ‘an idiot savant outsider who represents no one but herself’ . I felt so closely involved by the work I was shocked when a group of noisy young men came bouncing down the stairs. ‘Hey no, you can’t come in, go away!’ 

 Some scraps of material were made with sitiches so tiny I could hardly see if it was sewing or drawing. The mono prints where some of the writing is forwards and some backwards create doubt about what we’re allowed to read.

I went to see the exhibition in the South London Gallery in 1997. The thing that irks me now as then is the crass slogans ‘I need art like I need god’ and this one, ‘Those who suffer love’

But the huge blankets are truly wonderful and masterful, telling me what’s what, communicate directly intimately with me as a woman in my forties.

Homberg hats and umbrella pines

The towering diving board of the Ugolino Golf Club (1934) in Florence, umbrella pines in the distance, appears at the Estorick Collection, Framing Modernism. The exhibition consists of photographs documenting Italian rationalist and modern architecture. Many pictures of hot sun and strong shadow, shadows of people in Homberg hats thrown onto blank concrete and strangely dark skies make a history of seemingly impartial documentation at the same time the optimism of the age. Old cars and taxis remind us how long ago this was, the  empty spaces remind us of the respect for machinery and concrete in general.

The more anonymous industrial and agricultural buildings, the station, fish market, taxi garage, salt warehouse seem to do better out of the black and white photography. In Nervi’s government salt warehouse the triangular pile of salt reaches up towards the curves of the massive concrete structure. Here is a picture of his aircraft hangar in Orvieto

Nearly all the photographs are empty of people except for their shadows. An empty day bed against a tall glass-concrete wall suggests the (female) nude has just got up and left. 

Connected in the exhibition with Rationalism’s love of farm buildings, there appear pages from Pagano and Daniel’s a typological account of rural architecture, bounded in stylish black borders. Was this contacts sheet look was to emphasise the rigorous nature of the photographer’s task of recording facts.

 

All galleries encourage their own particular ambience and the one at Estorick collection was on of intense interest and concentration. The visitors looked as if they could eat the photos of light and shade, peering, leaning forward screwing up their eyes. There was the sharp click of heels on floorboards as they entered the dream world of swimming pools, stadiums, TB clinic its show of optimism.

There was just this beautiful mysterious one from Ugo Mulas from (1953) that suggests all is not as wonderful as it might be. 

I did of course wish I’d paid more attention when I visited Como, Florence and Turin in the past. I’m sure I just hurried through the station Santa Maria Novella in Florence. Who would have thought it would be so famous.

Raqib Shaw Absence of God

On my way home from a meeting I went to this at the White Cube.  The biggest work is a huge panel seven metres long, painted in industrial enamel with rhinestones. My first impression was of impossibly bright colours, fantastical creatures, the deep blue skin of human figures decorated with strings of sparkling beads. Then chimera of wildly different combinations:  cat, monkey, bird heads, lizard tails and octupus genitals. There were architectural elements, ruined columns and arches then a chasm the figures appear to be falling into while butterflies float above. There was no referencing system for someone like me in the intricate  almost lurid colours. The  solution for me was to walk slowly past letting myself be dazzled by the gems winking at me as I moved.

Upstairs, ‘Adam’ is an awkward looking lobster mounted on top of a struggling human figure lying on its back. The male figure has a featherless baby bird’s head with bats and frogs mating in its mouth and maggots crawling around on its tongue. It has more creatures for genitals.

Machine à habiter

Le Corbusier at the Barbican

This exhibition was frustrating to begin with. Why must they establish such a banging narrative? But the second part, where you could just mill around taking in the materials and documentation, offered a chance to admire the work of the great man. Altogether it made me want to go and visit the buildings themselves again-I’d go to Marseilles to visit the Unité. There was the picture of the nursery children playing on the roof, something they were probably never allowed to do again.

The most interesting exhibits are the contact prints, models and annotated drawings part of the design process. The drawings on discoloured paper look fragile but it was moving to see the lighting and heating drawings that looked so simple, hand labeled in those kind of capital letters I tried hard to copy when I was at architectural school. 

There was film footage of the Indian workers carrying up the concrete in large metal bowls. Amongst contacts from the work of Lucien Hervé was a picture of rows of workers standing at the top of the shuttering amongst the forest of reinforcement bars pouring in the concrete by hand. 

To experience the ideas themselves you must visit the buildings, which you can easily do, next time you’re in Paris, Marseilles, Ronchamp. Or you can see Le Corbusier’s influence on London architects in the Golden Lane Estate.  next door. On my way out cycling away, the glass clad office buildings surrounding the Barbican just looked a mess. Could be reverence or reference, placing artfully massed ventilation shafts in the piazza.

I went to see Synecdoche, New York

My  shove towards culture this week was a trip to the Rio Cinema.  ‘Unloved’ on Sunday night, directed by Samantha Morton, a television film based on her own childhood, made me feel so guilty and depressed by the time I went to bed, I was considering becoming a foster parent myself. So how was I going to feel climbing into bed after Synecdoche, New York? That is if I could find my real bed and not the play bed with my real partner not my actor partner. And was it me or the person playing the person playing me? Next morning I was still  confused about which actor was playing who. I still had Samantha Morton and Emily Watson muddled up during breakfast and lost fifty quid over it. Worst of all I missed recognising Jennifer Jason Leigh who has always been one of my favourite actresses. Luckily I had no problem recognising Philip Seymour Hoffman who aged and suffered and balded very well. 

A theatre director, Caden Cotard,  wins the genius prize (my partner says he’s always dreamed of getting one of those) and embarks on directing a huge production inside a massive industrial building. The play takes seventeen years to create, involves more and more characters who exchange places move on and off ’stage’.

Unusually I enjoyed the scenes near the end of the film most, where Caden pretends to be a cleaning lady to get into his ex-wife’s flat. Then in the stage version he plays the part of the cleaning lady while the actress who was playing the cleaning lady directs. Several friends I know  are in a race to finish the great work before dying gets the better of them. I went to bed feeling I had massively disappointed myself already. I think this was mainly down to the fact that we, the audience, never see Caden’s play and can’t imagine how it would ever be performed.

Les Sylphides

I never thought I’d go and see Les Sylphides, no story, plain white costumes, set in a graveyard, but last weekend I was offered a ticket to the Royal Ballet. Fokine was influenced by Isadora Duncan so its all grist to the mill. My first impression was of long tulle costumes so white they looked as if they could be dayglo. Can you have fluorescent white? The soloist, Yuhui Choe, put an extra contemporary sideways slant into the Prelude and the Pas de Deux. She took the what now seem like quite drab movements and transformed them really into something fey and whitty at the same time. 

Sensorium, designed specially to go between the two Les Sylphides and Firebird, had something surgical about the colours, elastoplast pink and blue. I mainly enjoyed Philip Cornfield’s  performance of the Debussy, and the choreography looked more exciting for the dancers, a bit gymnastic. It was thrilling to watch Leanne Benjamin being twirled upside down over her partner’s head.

In all three ballets I was struck by the way the corp de ballet defines the space on the stage by making three sides of a square or circles, rather than the wings or the backdrop which are flat. Usually I’d be up in the amphitheatre. Seen from up there the dancers appear to be making patterns across the stage. This time, sitting in the stalls circle, for Firebird I could really enjoy the spectacle, a mass of colourful, twirling arms and heads.

I was disappointed with patrons of the stalls circle though. Top artists are performing live and they’re sitting as if on their own sofa watching television. Next time its back up to the gods.