Archives for posts with tag: artcritic

The Caged Bird’s Song


This is a magical display. Chris Ofili has created a watercolour which has been woven into a tapestry by Dovecot Tapestry Studio. The tapestry is enormous, a triptych covering a whole wall of the exhibition space, and it’s beautiful. Ofili’s image is rich and bright, reds and oranges bleeding into blues and turquoises and purples. The left and right panels show figures drawing back theatre curtains to show a mythical, watery, tropical scene. A couple sit at the centre of the work underneath a waterfall, him serenading her on a guitar with a still ocean behind them. She’s holding a cocktail glass, into which a nymph or god in a tree pours a sparkling liquid. This heavenly cocktail waiter, it turns out, is Mario Balotelli. The adjacent room shows Ofili’s studies for his watercolour, the most magical of which are those where Balotelli rises from cocktail glasses like a genie robed in smoke. The piece is titled ‘The Caged Bird’s Song’, referring to the first part of the great Maya Angelou’s autobiography. A caged bird is depicted in the right of the work but the whole piece is musical. 


There’s a calmness in the room – I could sit in here for hours, like in the Rothko room at Tate Modern. There’s also a happiness and serenity in the tapestry, as well as a heady tropical expectation in the black storm clouds on the horizon. I’ve never been to Trinidad, where Ofili is based, but there’s a flavour of Caribbean nature in this piece. The couple are under the waterfall, so I doubt the imminent downpour will bother them. The work is so rich, I want to hear the tale of these figures and the myth of this landscape. The medium of tapestry is itself mythical – maybe Arachne wove this. This display doesn’t need a soundscape. You can hear the water through the tapestry. 

Balotelli the genie


From afar, the tapestry looks like a watercolour. The pigments bleed into each other like watered down paint, mixing with the waterfall and the sea. The level of skill in this piece is phenomenal – the weavers have somehow managed to translate water into wool. 

This is a tapestry not a watercolour – how

Advertisements

This is a landscape photograph of the Iguazu Falls in Brazil. It’s a colour photo, but the muted grey of the flat water at the top of the image and the whiteness of the spray make it appear black and white. The muted tones belie the rushing activity of the water.

There are three sections in this image: the inverted triangle of falling water in the centre, framed by the spray at the sides of the image and the river and horizon at the top.

The high definition of the photograph picks out these sections in three distinct textures. The unfallen river is glassy and smooth, the spray is a soft, cloudy mist. Where the water pours over the edge, the very top of the waterfall, it has an intricate sculptural quality. The patterns of this central focus point are repeated elsewhere in nature – these shapes could be veins, or the inside of your iris, or a nebula. It’s an impersonal photograph, as I suppose landscapes often are, but in this universal structure there is a unifying quality. This shape could be anywhere in the universe, it could be inside you.

By photographing the waterfall, Tillmans has rendered movement still. Thanks to the camera, we are invited to examine the way the waterfall stands in one moment. It’s a very contemplative image. It captures three very different stages of movement; a seeming calm, a plunging rush downwards, and a soft, gentle rise. 

The power of the waterfall is almost lost in its beauty. Only the boats at the very top edge of the photograph recall the danger of the water, the fragility of the human world. Hung alongside photographs of shiny cars, this photo is a pause from urban life, a moment of meditation on something separate from humans. Without the boats, without Tillmans, Iguazu falls would go on falling. 

jfk_3

[Disclaimer – I whizzed round this exhibition because so little of it grabbed me.]

Robert Rauschenberg may have been the father of pop art but I was less than head over heels with this exhibition. His Red Paintings seemed dull rather than revolutionary, and the wall of his collage-esque silkscreens was uninspiring. These were new and innovative when Rauschenberg first made them, but their visual aesthetic is now so ubiquitous that it reminded me of the way we covered our GCSE art sketchbooks with various related images to make them look cool and arty. Although maybe that’s the point – his revolutionary has become our ordinary.

I did enjoy the goat. It’s pleasantly fitting that Rauschenberg really struggled to fit the notoriously stubborn goat into his art. He tried many goat compositions with none of them working, until he rammed it through a tire and voila.

I found the first room  by far the most exciting, showing his experimentation with everyday materials and the role of the artist in the creation of work. Rauschenberg barely contributed physically to the John Cage, Automobile Tire Print (1953), a long thin black tyre tread. Rauschenberg poured the paint, but Cage drove the car and made the image. So who made the work?

I picked out Erased de Kooning Drawing (1953) from afar for the aesthetics of the work, but totally lost my shit when I realised what was going on. Ostensibly just a grubby piece of paper in a gold frame, this is a work of conceptual genius. Rauschenberg had asked de Kooning to make a drawing which Rauschenberg could then erase. This work is a collaboration with de Kooning, or an ex de Kooning, an authorised undoing. A destruction and a creation. I’m still fangirling over this.

I can appreciate that Rauschenberg’s work has incredible artistic value, but alas many of his pieces were just not to my taste. Having said that, his experimental work where there is a blur around the question of markmaker as artist absolutely blew me away. Maybe with a little more understanding I’ll warm to him as an acquired taste.