Blackpaint 434 – Creed; the Piles, the Cacti and the Suspense

Hayward Gallery – Martin Creed, “What’s the Point of it?”

This was reviewed on the Review Show (BBC2) and was described as “joyous” by Paul Morley; the others agreed. I was astounded to hear that music was part of the exhibition, in the form of several soundtrack items – I was totally unaware of this; just didn’t notice it, I suppose. In fact, the reviewers mentioned a number of items I missed; as always, sounded as if they were at a different show.

It’s packed with exhibits, mostly numbered not named – here’s my list, with the occasional comment:

Swinging “MOTHERS” sign, nearly skimming the head, if your as tall as me (6ft 4in)
Diminishing, or growing, stacks/lines of cacti, chairs, tables, planks, boxes, girders

Pictures of stepped pyramids and staircases

Stripe paintings on walls (horizontal, vertical, diagonal, criss-crossed…)
Film of rather small erect penis, gradually diminishing, on terrace
Pointed tower of LEGO
Rough portraits, duff portraits, freely painted, multi – colour abstracts (small)
Metal nozzles, protuberances and er – intuberances (?) like bathroom fittings
smooth white breast-shaped swellings, “growing” from wall
Dark piano, each key of which sounded at intervals by attendant
White piano, lid opening and crashing shut automatically at regular intervals
Door, opening and closing
Car, bonnet, doors and boot of which opening and shutting, lights on and off, regular intervals
Line of metronomes, out of sync (when we were there, anyway)
1000 differently coloured and framed prints of a broccoli “tree”
A load of balls (tennis, basketball, football, etc.)
Little ticky-tacky paint and tape pictures, quite nice
Video of two dogs, wolf hound and chihuahua, wandering about and pursued by men
Video of a young man and young woman, walking on into a white space and being sick on the floor. The man is first, and accomplishes his puking with something of a swagger; hands on hips, I think. The woman, however, outdoes him with about six consecutive large sploshes of thin red winey vomit – couple of bottles’ worth, I should think. Well done!
Separating the two vomits is a sequence in which a young woman comes on, hitches her dress up, squats down and proceeds to have a shit. This is quite tense, as at first, she only manages a couple of little pellets. She grunts a bit; obviously she thinks there is more to come. I got a little annoyed at this point when a young couple came and stood in front of me – didn’t want to miss anything…. and then there it was – curling out slowly and finally achieving separation. She stands and walks off; job done.

In the leaflet, it says “horrible vomit” becomes a form of painting, and shit – the first solid thing that any of us makes – is sculpture”. This reminds me of the David Foster Wallace story of the man who shits out fully-formed “sculptures” like portrait busts of celebrities…

Saatchi Gallery – Body Language (cont.)

Couple more painters worth a mention in the above exhibition:

Dana Schutz

This one’s called “burnt Picnic”, I think;

And Andra Ursuta

“Vandal Lust”, a fantastical trebuchet (catapult) thing – sort of ramshackle Anish Kapoor, not working – with a couple of flattened, smashed bodies lying around, one of which appears to have been propelled into a wall, going by the damage to the plaster.

Denis Tarasov‘s Russian and Ukrainian gravestone C prints, showing the dead in their lives with their cars, cigars and champagne are worth mentioning too.

Days of 36, Angelopoulos (1974)

Made under the “Colonels’ ” regime in Greece, on a tight budget, this story of a jail hostage taking and the political intrigue behind the scenes is difficult to follow at times; whose is the body fished out of the sea, for example? It does, however, have a scene which anticipates “The Shawshank Redemption”; music (a tango, it sounds like) is played in the compound – the inmates crowd the windows of the cells, overcome with emotion…

Burmese Days

Re-reading Orwell’s book to compare it to Forster’s Passage to India. Orwell’s is much more forceful, more angry, the language of the British violent and racially abusive; maybe it’s the 10 years’ difference between the books, as well as Orwell’s more radical (?)political outlook.. A couple of scornful remarks about Jews and homosexual scoutmasters from Flory, Orwell’s “hero” (sort of)…

Garden House

Blackpaint

14.02.14

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