On Saturday 30th April 2011, Carol and I
made a trip out to IMMA to see an exhibition of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
It was a hot day oppressive day with little wind, the galleries were crammed
with tourists and there was not air conditioning in the galleries. Carol was almost in tears as she viewed her
heroines canvases. I had come with a sceptical mind, but even I had to admit
Kahlo’s brilliance and originality. Her canvases and drawings had a rare almost
crazy intensity. Rivera in comparison was a shocking let down. His paintings
were weak and facile in comparison to his famous partner, but then his best
work had been his murals in Mexico, so I had to give him the benefit of the
doubt.
The fate of Diego
River’s socialist art and Freda Khalo’s autobiographical art mirrored the
changes in society, where political life had become dubious and the personal
had become both political and fetishized. We could no more understand River’s
political idealism today than his time could appreciate Khalo’s
self-involvement.
After
looking around twice at the Kahlo and Rivera exhibition, we went over to the
main galleries. In the ground floor galleries, I was surprised and delighted by
Romuald Hazoumè’s exhibition of found petrol cans that he had
slightly altered to look like African masks, his semi-abstract acrylic paintings
mixed with mud and dung, his evocative black and white photographs of Benin men
festooned with petrol cans and his sculptures made of found petrol cans.
It was amazing to see how much one could
achieve with humble materials and a bit of imagination. We loved Romuald
Hazoumè’s work so much we bought the catalogue.
Then
we went upstairs to see a huge collection of Old Master prints from the Madden
Arnholz collection. The galleries were darkly lit, hot and stuff and I felt
tired so it was hard to concentrate on these small black and white etchings,
though I did linger over some gems by Rembrandt, Dürer, Goya and Honoré Daumier.
Finally, we saw Anima Mundi a showcase of Philip Taaffe paintings from the last ten
years. For decades I had seen his exhibitions around the world mentioned in art
magazines and seen reproductions of his work. I had never thought much of him,
but had held off judging his work until I saw it in the flesh. When I did, I
was disgusted by such a successful and rich artist without an ounce of passion
or talent. He took the art of textiles and made it even more mechanical and
soulless. The huge canvases echoed again, male artists’ egotistical desire to
overwhelm their viewers and cow them into credulity. Perhaps such huge pattered
art would have looked funky in a bank but in a museum, it looked empty and
pointless.