Sunday, the day of the Sabbath, or otherwise a day to explore dissident, inconoclastic, shocking art. Rising later than usual, we walked bleary eyed into the kitchen, tasty bacon sandwhiches were prepared by Jesse, sustaining us for another busy day and trip back to Dronfield. Pulling our Ouyster cards swarvely from breast-pocket (me and Joe had the hang of it now), we jumped on the red bus to St. Paul's Cathedral. The day was dark but the rain was holding out; the tranquil interior of St.Paul's made us glow. We couldn't see the entirety of the building with it being a Sunday but the part we saw was impressive; many candels decorated the interior making me feel welcome, warm. After wandering around St. Paul's we made our way to the Millenium Bridge to walk across the turbulent Thames to the Tate Modern Gallery.
Art, a bizarre world. As Oscar Wilde noted, 'all art is quite useless' but it is the uselessness of art that makes it so useful. For what other medium can challenge, shock, stir, break boundaries, expose, as much as art. Much different to literature, you experience a work exactly as the artist intended; it is not diluted or transfigured by the imagination as words are. You see what you get. In some ways you could say art and literature are polar opposites. Art is 100% the artist's vision; no imagination is involved only when it comes to interpretation. On the other hand in literature words are flexible; the imagination shapes the words. I was looking forward to the Poetry and Surrealism section, being a big fan of Chirico, Magritte and Dalí. Somehow I just find what the Surrealists tried to do incredibly interesting. Influenced by breakthroughs in psychology, particularly the works of Freud, the surrealists make us look at the world through the prism of our subconscious. Whether it be the melting clocks of Dalí, the beautiful nudes stalking stange landscapes of Delvaux or self-referential paintings of Magritte, we traverse the backwaters of our mind, always finding small nooks and crannies we thought never existed. Highlights in the surrealism section were Magritte's The Sleeper and Nash's Landscape from a Dream. In this section we saw a small film by Maya Deren called Meshes of an Afternoon, Deren's answer to Hollywood film convention where the rule book is ripped up and the world of dream is allowed to run uninhibited. It was very enjoyable. The music was incredibly eerie and the cloaked ghost-like figure with a mirror face was shocking.
Some art was just too bizarre: women cutting letter holes in the vaginal area of their trousers 'to make a statement', a naked women covering herself in blood and rolling around in feathers, artists performing disturbing rituals or crucifixions with animals... Are these artists just out to shock? Or does their work mean something more profound? It may take me a while to see where the genius lies but I'll try. I much preferred the huge palm tree with naturalistic wallpaper surrounding it, garangutan mops and 30 pieces of silver sculptures. The classical model of Venus was funny next to a pile of dirty washing, illustrating how much society has moved on. Another highlight for me was the Russian propoganda section. You can really see how the harsh, cutting reds, blacks and whites convinced the Russian populace Russia was utopia- of course the total opposite from what it was. Other sections we explored were Manga and Andy Warhol.
A big blue bag. Unaccompanied, alone. There's a bomb in it. Oh, no it's Joe's bag. Quick, go and tell him before he causes a bomb scare. Just another day in the life of Mr Polshaw...
We left the gallery, brains tingling with the varied art we saw. On to the red bus, we rode to Kings Cross. Me and Joe gave Jesse a hearty handshake, thanking him for a busy, rewarding, adventurous weekend. Thanks a lot Jesse, London was lovely.
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