Friday, 27 February 2009
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Little demons: Voodoo, Hoochie-Coochie and the Creative Spirit.
The Riflemaker is one of those few galleries that make you feel at home while simultaneously accommodating for a plethora of sensory stimulation all within its cosy Victorian layout. Ring ring, creak creak -- this time its little door opens up to the mystery land of voodoo.
Now, voodoo is not just about sticking pins into grimacing evil dolls. It is a universe of spirits, a creative act unleashing the fire and forces within primal man, and a religion practiced by over 30 million people. Packing psychedelic paintings, centuries of sacrificial practice from the deepest corners of the world, beeswax cauldrons, repetitive rhythms of beating drums, Adolf Hitler and more, the gallery becomes something of an educational centre, a chemical lab and your grandma’s attic in one.
On the ground floor I was greeted by an influx of information about the mystical practice; stories and histories written and displayed, slave trade routes mapped out, piles of diaries and books- a whole library of seductive knowledge and a very friendly gallery assistant ready to fill in the gaps. A true feast to my spell-starved curiosity. Ooooh. After a few big gulps of historical facts however, I noticed the ‘The Crucifixion’ triptych in the corner and all literary interest subsided. I stood entranced in front of this psychedelic tree of life filled with an overabundance of tangled bodies, like branches, recreating and sprouting, in all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable positions. Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ in comparison is children’s book illustration. Definitely a wise curatorial move to hang it by the assistant’s desk – there is enough action here to keep you entertained for days. But let the show go on.
I made a silent vow to my new loved one on the wall to return after exploring what the rest of the terrain had in store and made my way up the creaky darkened stairs into a darkened musky room. I wasn’t sure whether it was the dimmed lights, the gentle melodies of Chopin flowing from the gramophone or the peculiar silent inhabitants of this little room that got to me – perhaps a combination of all, but the effect was immediately sedative. I felt a warm calm inside, the sort you get when in a nursery, tucked away somewhere in the safe corner of the house.
The rosy serenity did not last long however as my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and I saw the two little children-dolls in the far corner of the room. There was something very eerie about this work -- their little bodies, dressed in innocent frilly nightgowns were turned away, facing the corner. What are they hiding? Are they afraid? Or have they been naughty little demons perhaps? A more aggressive sculpture, made out of babies’ heads confirmed the slightly chilling ambiance, which began to infiltrate the room, as I started to take note of the other presences; a rucksack made in the shape of the all seeing Masonic eye, a miniature coffin with a dead doll next to that, a dark figure playing with a marionette, and a life sized totem-like structure made out of hair. This was one twisted little nursery. I wanted to stay and play.
Two floors down, the basement, with its sterile white light was a completely different experience all together. Actually it didn’t offer much compared to the attic, only foul smells of bubbling beeswax, which seemed more like burning plastic and a few works on walls. Its not that they were bad; the works themselves can be appreciated in their genre, but rather it was the experience, or lack of it that I found dissatisfying. I did not want to stand back and look at pictures. Hooked on sensory stimulation, all I wanted to do was go back upstairs, to the warped womb of a room, and feel. There should definitely be more little rooms arousing the senses around.
Whether it is visual, mental or nasal stimulation that you seek, the show fulfils that role with sensory tricks and spooky twists along the way. You can even practice a bit of hoochie coochie in the communal wishing machine provided, without having to invest in one yourself like William Burroughs. Concerned with the mystery of the creative act, achieved through heightened states of consciousness (and unconsciousness) the rich variety of work on display encompasses the term art in all the senses of the word. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Jan 19th - April 4th 2009, Riflemaker, Beak Street.
Now, voodoo is not just about sticking pins into grimacing evil dolls. It is a universe of spirits, a creative act unleashing the fire and forces within primal man, and a religion practiced by over 30 million people. Packing psychedelic paintings, centuries of sacrificial practice from the deepest corners of the world, beeswax cauldrons, repetitive rhythms of beating drums, Adolf Hitler and more, the gallery becomes something of an educational centre, a chemical lab and your grandma’s attic in one.
On the ground floor I was greeted by an influx of information about the mystical practice; stories and histories written and displayed, slave trade routes mapped out, piles of diaries and books- a whole library of seductive knowledge and a very friendly gallery assistant ready to fill in the gaps. A true feast to my spell-starved curiosity. Ooooh. After a few big gulps of historical facts however, I noticed the ‘The Crucifixion’ triptych in the corner and all literary interest subsided. I stood entranced in front of this psychedelic tree of life filled with an overabundance of tangled bodies, like branches, recreating and sprouting, in all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable positions. Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ in comparison is children’s book illustration. Definitely a wise curatorial move to hang it by the assistant’s desk – there is enough action here to keep you entertained for days. But let the show go on.
I made a silent vow to my new loved one on the wall to return after exploring what the rest of the terrain had in store and made my way up the creaky darkened stairs into a darkened musky room. I wasn’t sure whether it was the dimmed lights, the gentle melodies of Chopin flowing from the gramophone or the peculiar silent inhabitants of this little room that got to me – perhaps a combination of all, but the effect was immediately sedative. I felt a warm calm inside, the sort you get when in a nursery, tucked away somewhere in the safe corner of the house.
The rosy serenity did not last long however as my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and I saw the two little children-dolls in the far corner of the room. There was something very eerie about this work -- their little bodies, dressed in innocent frilly nightgowns were turned away, facing the corner. What are they hiding? Are they afraid? Or have they been naughty little demons perhaps? A more aggressive sculpture, made out of babies’ heads confirmed the slightly chilling ambiance, which began to infiltrate the room, as I started to take note of the other presences; a rucksack made in the shape of the all seeing Masonic eye, a miniature coffin with a dead doll next to that, a dark figure playing with a marionette, and a life sized totem-like structure made out of hair. This was one twisted little nursery. I wanted to stay and play.
Two floors down, the basement, with its sterile white light was a completely different experience all together. Actually it didn’t offer much compared to the attic, only foul smells of bubbling beeswax, which seemed more like burning plastic and a few works on walls. Its not that they were bad; the works themselves can be appreciated in their genre, but rather it was the experience, or lack of it that I found dissatisfying. I did not want to stand back and look at pictures. Hooked on sensory stimulation, all I wanted to do was go back upstairs, to the warped womb of a room, and feel. There should definitely be more little rooms arousing the senses around.
Whether it is visual, mental or nasal stimulation that you seek, the show fulfils that role with sensory tricks and spooky twists along the way. You can even practice a bit of hoochie coochie in the communal wishing machine provided, without having to invest in one yourself like William Burroughs. Concerned with the mystery of the creative act, achieved through heightened states of consciousness (and unconsciousness) the rich variety of work on display encompasses the term art in all the senses of the word. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Jan 19th - April 4th 2009, Riflemaker, Beak Street.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Friday, 6 February 2009
Do not despair, it won't come to get you. Axel Hütte: Out of Darkness
Waddington Galleries could not have timed this one better. Featuring endless inhospitable tundra and caverns with sharp icy fangs, “Out of Darkness” by Axel Hütte presents nature at its rawest at a time when London is being hit by a natural disaster firsthand. Let not the recent blizzards scare you away however. If you have survived, and bagged a day off work with that, you will appreciate Hütte’s travels into obscure corners of the Earth in search of the sublime in some of the most untameable environments, all neatly tamed within the gallery frames.
A graduate of the Hilla&Bernd Becher school of thought, and former studio mate of Andreas Gursky, Hütte definitely retains the emphasis on sobriety. Despite their monumental scale, his photographs are intensely meticulous in detail; each twig is defined in the tangled green cobweb of the forest floor, creating a state of endlessness and sheer proximity. (Nitihant-2, Canada 2007) It is frightening to think what would happen if the bus broke down here… Devoid of people and narrative, Hütte’s landscapes are like rare white tigers in the zoo-- best appreciated through the safety net of the fence.
Yet despite the aggressive realism, there is also something very romantic, and almost soothing about Hütte’s work. It is like the mild tranquilising effect you get from starting at a Caspar David Friedrich, and never wanting to look away. Is it the common German Geist that knows how to hit the melancholic buttons? Perhaps it is the combination of both; Hütte’s choice of traditional equipment as well as subject matter which emanate such an intense effect. It is rather refreshing to see such large images produced via analogue means, in which one man attempts to conquer the forces of nature single-handedly. Aesthetically, Capulin Fire-1 Diptych 2007 is particularly pleasing; the dancing fiery flames let loose accompanied by drifting smoke are immaculately preserved. This is thanks to the Ditone process, in which the image is developed onto natural paper, allowing the fibres to add texture and emphasise the organic structure of a fire.
From the murky depths of forest foliage to flaming hot fires, to piercingly cold tundra, Hütte’s landscapes surely do not lack in geographical abundance. I left the exhibition with a longing for more. Isolation has never felt so alluring. Finally, for a complete visual kick, try compare and contrast, and before embarking on the Hütte’s travels, check out the new National Geographic collection-cum-store next door on Regent street first – the traditional travel photography on offer there, in the conventional A3 size, seems like coffee table literature compared to Hütte’s mammoths.
A graduate of the Hilla&Bernd Becher school of thought, and former studio mate of Andreas Gursky, Hütte definitely retains the emphasis on sobriety. Despite their monumental scale, his photographs are intensely meticulous in detail; each twig is defined in the tangled green cobweb of the forest floor, creating a state of endlessness and sheer proximity. (Nitihant-2, Canada 2007) It is frightening to think what would happen if the bus broke down here… Devoid of people and narrative, Hütte’s landscapes are like rare white tigers in the zoo-- best appreciated through the safety net of the fence.
Yet despite the aggressive realism, there is also something very romantic, and almost soothing about Hütte’s work. It is like the mild tranquilising effect you get from starting at a Caspar David Friedrich, and never wanting to look away. Is it the common German Geist that knows how to hit the melancholic buttons? Perhaps it is the combination of both; Hütte’s choice of traditional equipment as well as subject matter which emanate such an intense effect. It is rather refreshing to see such large images produced via analogue means, in which one man attempts to conquer the forces of nature single-handedly. Aesthetically, Capulin Fire-1 Diptych 2007 is particularly pleasing; the dancing fiery flames let loose accompanied by drifting smoke are immaculately preserved. This is thanks to the Ditone process, in which the image is developed onto natural paper, allowing the fibres to add texture and emphasise the organic structure of a fire.
From the murky depths of forest foliage to flaming hot fires, to piercingly cold tundra, Hütte’s landscapes surely do not lack in geographical abundance. I left the exhibition with a longing for more. Isolation has never felt so alluring. Finally, for a complete visual kick, try compare and contrast, and before embarking on the Hütte’s travels, check out the new National Geographic collection-cum-store next door on Regent street first – the traditional travel photography on offer there, in the conventional A3 size, seems like coffee table literature compared to Hütte’s mammoths.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Monday, 2 February 2009
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Seize the Day, Join the Queue: Adventures in Elephant & Castle and "Seizure"
I can't remember the last time I got out of bed at 8:00 am, on a foggy winter Sunday, for art. It was the final day of Seizure, the much talked about installation by Roger Hiorns, in which the artist transforms an urban housing estate into an immersive grotto of overgrown copper sulphate crystals. Wow, sounds great! After teasing my imagination with all sorts of weird and wonderful sci-fi visions of massive blue crystals and moon like surfaces, I decided to sacrifice the warmth of my bed in pursuit of visual stimulation at an abandoned housing estate in Elephant & Castle.I met up with some fellow art enthusiast-cum-masochist friends at the nearby shopping mall, for a quick fix of caffeine and some temporary shelter from the murky morning rain. Our initial plan of beating the ‘last day’ crowds got a little swayed once inside this weird and wonderful structure, called god knows for what reason "Infanta de Castilla". Let me just say, this mall deserves a blog on its own. It was incredible; like going back in time, bang in the centre of London. I felt like I was in East Berlin or on a very well made film set, having successfully captured the soviet spirit. The feeling of decay hung strong in the air, as did the stench of something fishy. This place had well passed its expiry date, but for me, it was a novelty. I snapped away frantically at my discovery, delighted to be somewhere outside of the glossy-ads, consumerist mania which is central London, especially now, just weeks away from Christmas. I felt like I had found my Zen in these dated surroundings, where time stood still. Its easy to forget just how advanced the London where I live in is.
But anyway, back too art. A few coffees, some sock jokes and an extremely sweet banana milkshake later, we made our way back to the cold and rain, in the search of Harpers Road. A crowding cloud of colourful umbrellas seemed like a telltale sign. Ah, a queue. It must be here. Where else but in London could you be greeted by this marvellous site on a Sunday morning. In fact there was two queues; one for the wellies, which obviously seemed to be undersupplied, and the other for the actual art. The wait was about an hour, the site assistant informed us. An hour in the cold. Oh well, we got this far.
Twenty or so minutes into the stationery wait, one of our party abandoned us for the pub to get the blood flowing back in his toes. One man down, but we were still going strong and full of hope.
After another hour passed, and we were still in queue one, I started to question my loyalty to art. The experience seemed to be turning into a test about the art of queuing. Despite the cold, everyone was very well behaved. They even brought books, these organised folk. By this time I too had started to loose touch of my toes and the prospect of putting on a pair of wellies and trudging around in puddles of blue chemicals (that is what the wellies were for) seemed less and less enticing for me. This crystal grotto better be good!
Eventually at 3:00pm we reached our turn, and went inside, into the rooms full of blue. And it was pretty, like a school chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong where chemicals mutated, devouring everything in sight. There were a few tiny rooms to explore, all united by the merciless attack of the crystals. Yet, during the two-hour wait, I had constructed such a magnificent palace of blue in my head, that not even a crystallized Taj Mahal would have impressed me much. Nor was the blue much embraced at this point by my comatosed companion. I wander if a warmer choice of colour would have been a more successful experience?
I spent my 10 minutes inside taking a thousand photos, while Irina poked at the walls to take away as many loose crystals as she could. Having waited so long we did not want to leave empty handed. It was after however, having found warmth and shelter at a local latino pub, that we were truly able to examine and enjoy our sapphire crystals. Was it a worthwhile wait? Had it been shorter, and the day warmer, perhaps it would have been a more enjoyable experience. Nevertheless I’m grateful to Mr. Hions for my unexpected visual stimulation of the Elephant & Castle terrains.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
