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rhythmaningI spent an afternoon in Tate Modern. Mostly, I wanted to see the Rothko retrospective (and I shall be making return visits to that), but I caught a couple of other shows and, having followed the lead made by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
psychochicken and become a member of the Tate, made the most of the facilities there (a good lunch, a couple of coffees, and a great view!).
Entering the Turbine Hall, I had expected to be assaulted by giant sculptures; but the Dominique Gonzales-Foerster exhibit, THX 2058, are hidden behind screens. This is art which was trying to tell a tale – there is a whole back-story to the creation of the giant sculptures – homages to Alexander Calder, Louise Bougeois and a couple of other people I didn’t know: giant versions of already large pieces.
It didn’t really work for me. I have seen Bourgeois’ arachnid “Maman” several times, and it is a very effective piece – eerie, slightly scary for a one-time arachnophobe, and haunting. This time, the sheer scale of the piece removed its impact: it was too big to really interact. I just thought, “so what?”
I liked the curve and colour of the Calder piece, and the giant cat skeleton (taken from Maurizio Cattelan) was interesting. What fascinated me most though were the books left on the yellow and blue bunks: H.G. Well’s “The War of the Worlds”, Harry Harrison’s “Make Room! Make Room!”, Jorge Luis Borges’ “Ficciones”, Margurite Dumas’ “Hiroshima, Mon Amour”, and so on. Overall, I didn’t think this show worked well – the story was contrived, and the works not improved by their gigantism.
There has been a lot written about the Rothko. I loved it. That doesn’t do justice to my reaction: I thought it was brilliant. It quite literally took my breath away – walking into the third room, which houses fourteen of the pictures painted for the walls of the Seagram’s Four Season restaurant, I gasped; and it drew tears, too. It was stunning. I was expecting to love this show, though: I knew what I was going to see, so I can’t say it surprised me.
I spent a long time with the Seagram’s murals: whilst this article in the Independent reckons that Rothko’s paintings are the equivalent of bubblegum music - all hook with no depth or substance – for me they are full of emotion. I can stare into the dense paint for ages – it becomes hypnotic or meditative: the painting envelops me, I want to dive in. Seeing so many of the large murals in one space I found very powerful. I walked from one canvas to another; I looked close up and from a far; I sat on the benches and stared.
This room linked the others together, and each time I passed through I had to stop and wait, looking at another canvas. It was just gorgeous.
If I knew what to expect from the murals, the black series were new to me. They were fascinating, too: they have a real depth, despite being a single colour (or even the absence of colour). They are full of texture and depth. Again, I sat and looked at deeply into the pictures.
One of the rooms detailed the methods and skills that Rothko had used to create his pictures. I had no interest in learning this at all – indeed, I think I would rather they had followed Rothko’s lead and not investigated how he worked. There was a beautiful canvas in the room, though (since most of Rothko’s pictures are called “maroon on red”, “red on maroon”, “grey on black”, “black on black”, “brown on grey” or “untitled”, it seems a bit pointless to name them all!). It was mounted so one could see the back of the canvas – another aspect of how he worked: the stretcher was very workman-like, utilitarian (in contrast to the lush oil on the face); and it bore his signature, the only evidence of his creation.
There were rooms of brown-and-grey and grey-and-black paperworks and canvases: horizons stretch across the painting, demanding a focus, drawing me in.
There were two other things about the exhibition. I didn’t think the lighting worked: they used spots which reflected off the paint, distracting; I couldn’t help but wonder why they hadn’t used diffuse lighting, or bounced the spots off the ceiling (which is what I would have done). It also seemed to be a very sociable exhibition: people were sharing how they felt about the pictures with strangers.
I had a discussion about Rothko’s signature and the structure of the stretcher with a woman. In another room, a man, despairing of his partner’s dislike of the pictures, was polling other people on their views, and his partner was explaining her feelings: it turned out the pictures moved her so such sadness that she hated them – but they clearly had a very powerful reaction.
Whilst I knew what to expect from the Rothko, I hadn’t even heard of Cildo Meireles before. But I loved his show, a series of fascinating installations. I only went because it was there – because I could. I am so glad I did.
The works are large and textures, and invite you to walk through them, changing them as you do so. This is most true of “Through”, a large, maze-like structure featuring a raised floor of glass and a variety of barriers – a picket fence, a steel street barrier, a couple of aquaria (complete with fish), a roll of barbed wire. The floor is made of glass, which cracks beneath your feet: what you see will be different from what I saw, because I have contributed to the cracks in the glass (along with thousands of others footsteps).
“Fontes” was another maze, a spiral of hanging measuring sticks; cut-out numbers were scattered on the wall, and the walls were covered with clocks. “Babel” was a tower built of old radios, all switched on.
“Red Shift” consisted of three separate rooms. In the first, a living room has been turned red: everything is red - the tv, an ipod, a typewriter – all red; the second contains a beautiful puddle of red enamel, spreading as if flowing through the room, until it covers the floor of the third, containing a sink into which flows red water.
All these works were fun – intelligent, in that they made me think; and they made me smile, even through the sinister bones or the blood red puddle.
The last piece, “Volatile”, was just brilliant: a room full of talcum powder. Well, full to a depth of eight inches or so. In the darkness (it is lit by a single candle), my feet sank deep into the powder, which sucked at me as I tried to move – quick powder, trying to keep me there. I wish I had taken my boots off and felt the powder between my toes; and next time, I shall do that. I’ll just make sure to roll my trousers up first – the powder go everywhere!
psychochicken and become a member of the Tate, made the most of the facilities there (a good lunch, a couple of coffees, and a great view!).Entering the Turbine Hall, I had expected to be assaulted by giant sculptures; but the Dominique Gonzales-Foerster exhibit, THX 2058, are hidden behind screens. This is art which was trying to tell a tale – there is a whole back-story to the creation of the giant sculptures – homages to Alexander Calder, Louise Bougeois and a couple of other people I didn’t know: giant versions of already large pieces.
It didn’t really work for me. I have seen Bourgeois’ arachnid “Maman” several times, and it is a very effective piece – eerie, slightly scary for a one-time arachnophobe, and haunting. This time, the sheer scale of the piece removed its impact: it was too big to really interact. I just thought, “so what?”
I liked the curve and colour of the Calder piece, and the giant cat skeleton (taken from Maurizio Cattelan) was interesting. What fascinated me most though were the books left on the yellow and blue bunks: H.G. Well’s “The War of the Worlds”, Harry Harrison’s “Make Room! Make Room!”, Jorge Luis Borges’ “Ficciones”, Margurite Dumas’ “Hiroshima, Mon Amour”, and so on. Overall, I didn’t think this show worked well – the story was contrived, and the works not improved by their gigantism.
* * *
There has been a lot written about the Rothko. I loved it. That doesn’t do justice to my reaction: I thought it was brilliant. It quite literally took my breath away – walking into the third room, which houses fourteen of the pictures painted for the walls of the Seagram’s Four Season restaurant, I gasped; and it drew tears, too. It was stunning. I was expecting to love this show, though: I knew what I was going to see, so I can’t say it surprised me.
I spent a long time with the Seagram’s murals: whilst this article in the Independent reckons that Rothko’s paintings are the equivalent of bubblegum music - all hook with no depth or substance – for me they are full of emotion. I can stare into the dense paint for ages – it becomes hypnotic or meditative: the painting envelops me, I want to dive in. Seeing so many of the large murals in one space I found very powerful. I walked from one canvas to another; I looked close up and from a far; I sat on the benches and stared.
This room linked the others together, and each time I passed through I had to stop and wait, looking at another canvas. It was just gorgeous.
If I knew what to expect from the murals, the black series were new to me. They were fascinating, too: they have a real depth, despite being a single colour (or even the absence of colour). They are full of texture and depth. Again, I sat and looked at deeply into the pictures.
One of the rooms detailed the methods and skills that Rothko had used to create his pictures. I had no interest in learning this at all – indeed, I think I would rather they had followed Rothko’s lead and not investigated how he worked. There was a beautiful canvas in the room, though (since most of Rothko’s pictures are called “maroon on red”, “red on maroon”, “grey on black”, “black on black”, “brown on grey” or “untitled”, it seems a bit pointless to name them all!). It was mounted so one could see the back of the canvas – another aspect of how he worked: the stretcher was very workman-like, utilitarian (in contrast to the lush oil on the face); and it bore his signature, the only evidence of his creation.
There were rooms of brown-and-grey and grey-and-black paperworks and canvases: horizons stretch across the painting, demanding a focus, drawing me in.
There were two other things about the exhibition. I didn’t think the lighting worked: they used spots which reflected off the paint, distracting; I couldn’t help but wonder why they hadn’t used diffuse lighting, or bounced the spots off the ceiling (which is what I would have done). It also seemed to be a very sociable exhibition: people were sharing how they felt about the pictures with strangers.
I had a discussion about Rothko’s signature and the structure of the stretcher with a woman. In another room, a man, despairing of his partner’s dislike of the pictures, was polling other people on their views, and his partner was explaining her feelings: it turned out the pictures moved her so such sadness that she hated them – but they clearly had a very powerful reaction.
* * *
Whilst I knew what to expect from the Rothko, I hadn’t even heard of Cildo Meireles before. But I loved his show, a series of fascinating installations. I only went because it was there – because I could. I am so glad I did.
The works are large and textures, and invite you to walk through them, changing them as you do so. This is most true of “Through”, a large, maze-like structure featuring a raised floor of glass and a variety of barriers – a picket fence, a steel street barrier, a couple of aquaria (complete with fish), a roll of barbed wire. The floor is made of glass, which cracks beneath your feet: what you see will be different from what I saw, because I have contributed to the cracks in the glass (along with thousands of others footsteps).
“Fontes” was another maze, a spiral of hanging measuring sticks; cut-out numbers were scattered on the wall, and the walls were covered with clocks. “Babel” was a tower built of old radios, all switched on.
“Red Shift” consisted of three separate rooms. In the first, a living room has been turned red: everything is red - the tv, an ipod, a typewriter – all red; the second contains a beautiful puddle of red enamel, spreading as if flowing through the room, until it covers the floor of the third, containing a sink into which flows red water.
All these works were fun – intelligent, in that they made me think; and they made me smile, even through the sinister bones or the blood red puddle.
The last piece, “Volatile”, was just brilliant: a room full of talcum powder. Well, full to a depth of eight inches or so. In the darkness (it is lit by a single candle), my feet sank deep into the powder, which sucked at me as I tried to move – quick powder, trying to keep me there. I wish I had taken my boots off and felt the powder between my toes; and next time, I shall do that. I’ll just make sure to roll my trousers up first – the powder go everywhere!