Blackpaint 9

Snot, Khaki and Bananas

My latest creation is looking at me, half finished (or more likely, half started); a vile green square atop another of snot and khaki, with an insipid orange telephone-shaped thing just over half the canvas in length, attached to the right side of the squares – the right side a washy grey with a black “gestural” curving line poking up into it.  Any offers?  Starting at £150, shall we say?

Possibly as a result of looking at this thing, or possibly the baked bananas and yoghurt I had for dinner, I am suffering from stomach pains, so tonight’s entry will be brief again, I’m afraid.

Turner Prize

When I visited the Turner Prize exhibition weeks ago,  I thought the  entries were (in order, best first): Lucy Skaer’s shy whale, Enrico David’s angry little spheres on legs, Roger Hiorn’s ground-down aircraft dust and Richard Wright’s gold mural.  I hardly remembered Wright’s entry, thinking of it as embossed wallpaper.  then I read some of the art bollocks on the wall and David’s pompous, self-important stuff made me relegate his entry to last.

Entirely predictably, Wright has won and I find on reading Adrian Searle’s piece in today’s Guardian, that it is “a joyous and tantalising experience… a monstrous and lovely apocalypse”..  Looking at the accompanying photograph, I have to agree (although I still see a wallpaper quality to it).  Perhaps you have to stand looking at it for longer than the 5 minutes, at the most, I gave it.  Charlotte Higgins describes the painfully laborious process of producing it, by pouncing, and I suppose that adds to it’s value (see Labour Theory of Value, earlier entry).

Wright’s work will be painted over after the exhibition, and that seems somehow to enhance the work – it seems heroic in a sense to me, to produce work you know will be destroyed, since the act of creating any piece of art is a denial of death and oblivion on some level.  You don’t mind someone having your work to put in their house but you don’t want it destroyed.  You have this mad idea that it will somehow be permanent – and Wright, and Michael Landy seem to have overcome that, at least on occasion.

 That’s what I mean by heroic – I’m not trying to compare artists with armed forces, or policemen, or lifeboatmen, or anyone who risks life and limb for the public good.

So, a moment ago, I was criticising Enrico David for being pompous and self-important; I don’t see why he should be the only one allowed, just because he is a Turner Prize finalist.  My day will come.

Listening to:  Decoration Day, by Sonny Boy Williamson (and loads of others)

“People, you have a good time now, just like the flowers that blooms in May (*2)

But Sonny Boy thinks about his baby- I get the blues every Decoration Day”



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