Showing posts with label design. Show all posts
Showing posts with label design. Show all posts

13/03/2014

Michael Craig-Martin



Late in November, I went with Carol to see the Michael Craig-Martin retrospective at IMMA Had Carol not been so keen to see it I probably would not have gone. Craig-Martin dubbed the Godfather of Brit art, taught such artists as Damien Hirst in Goldsmiths Art College, and it was easy to see what a seminal influence he had been on artists of that generation.  He was a monkey-see-monkey-do conceptual artist – borrowing and stealing the ideas of others freely. Craig-Martins conceptual sculptures of the 1970s formed and consolidated many of the conceptual innovations of the 1970s - which for better or worse had formed the lingua-franca of the art world. What surprised me about his retrospective was its depth and quality, and its diversity of ideas.                                   


I had expected to hate it, but in fact I found quite a lot to admire, and I was glad Carol had dragged me along. But what depressed me about it, was the realization, that success in the art world, gave one the ability to inflate and make claims for ones work impossible to the failed or unfashionable talent. Entering IMMA's beautiful courtyard I discovered its entire lower flower covered in one long continues print of one of Craig-Martins colourful collections of household objects, drawn in outline only and overlapping each other. All I could think was: “How much did this cost to make, and install? And who paid for it?”                                                                                   

Craig-Martins work plagiarized many of the key ideas of 1960-70s art. One of the key victims of this had been Patrick Caulfield, whose colourful pop arty paintings of ordinary objects; Craig-Martin had converted into colourful overlapping line drawings of ordinary objects. Many of these canvases were beautiful to look at and very well made. However, Craig-Martin had also hijacked Duchamp's use of ready-mades, Sol LeWitts use of wall drawings, Warhol's use of designed wallpaper with painted canvases placed over it, and so it went on and on. Elsewhere in the exhibition, I was reminded of Joseph Kosuth, Robert Morris, Brice Marden and others whose work, Craig-Martin seemed to convert into conceptual variations. I would have to have had specialist knowledge of conceptualist history to know just how grave these various acts of appropriation were, but I frankly could not give a dam.                                                                                                                

Overall, what struck me most was the use of conceptualized pastiche. One normally thinks of painting or sculpture when one thinks of pastiche, but Craig-Martin had adopted a newish strategy of taking the works of others and giving them his own conceptual-sculptural take. The most witty and effective of these for me were his Blinds, which seemed to convert the Minimal canvases of the likes of Brice Marden into muted coloured blinds, opened or closed to various degrees. Thus allowing each artwork to incorporate an almost endless element of variation. This idea of variation underlined most of Craig-Martin’s work and was seen at its best in his computer light boxes in which his illustrated day-glow objects emerged and disappeared randomly according to a computer program.                 

                                                                                                                     
In many ways Craig-Martin’s exhibition, was an ideal show for art students. For it showed how with unstinting diligence, money, self-belief and the neck to steal anything from anyone, one could make interesting art about just about anything. One did not have to have technical genius, or emotional depth or anything in particular to say about the world. One merely had to make (or have professionally made) objects of some craft and professionalism, on any subject what so ever, no matter how banal (in fact for institutional support, the more banal the better), but above all else – respect and work within the framework of the institutional and academic system. Craig-Martin’s work I felt had not and never would change the world, but it had and would cause a murmur within the walls of contemporary art institutions – a game of minor aesthetic delight for those who thought art was nothing more than an intellectual trivial pursuit.   

                                                              
The self deception and cultish insularity of the institutional art world was summed up for me when I entered one of the rooms that held Craig-Martin’s infamous sculpture Oak Tree which was a glass half-full of water on a glass shelve about eight feet high up on a wall, with a plague with a conceptual interview in which Craig-Martin asserted his right to describe it as an oak-tree. “Oh look there’s the glass of water that’s an Oak tree!” I chuckled to my girlfriend. “No it is an oak tree!” The invigilator exclaimed to me. “Oh right.” I murmured, not wishing to talk to her. “It is an Oak Tree! Read the sign!” She haughtily proclaimed. I had no desire to tell her I had seen the ‘Oak Tree’ in the Tate in London in 1996, or that I thought it was utter bullshit. Instead, I dutifully read the conceptual sign that accompanied the glass of water on a shelf and moved on. But as I did my spine shivered with the same kind of disgust that had filled me, when I had been forced to sit through Catholic mass and go along with the religious delusion that wafer and wine were in fact the body and blood of Christ. I frankly couldn’t care less if Craig-Martin chose to make the artistic point that whatever the artist claimed was art – was art. I certainly did not think it an original statement; it was in fact just another pastiche this time of Duchamp and Kosuth. But I did mind being told what to think by some snotty nosed gallery intern. The art world could claim anything they wanted to be art, but I and everyone else had the absolute right to deny it was art, or that we thought it to be part of a very smug, pseudo-intellectual, irrational and boring kind.                                                                        

 The truth about art I had come to believe was – that there was no eternal meaning to it, it’s grand theories were largely obscure, elitist and subject to fashion, and it had little or no power to effect any kind of change in society. Art was nothing more than a mode of communication – part of a cultural exchange. Sometimes it connected profoundly with its audience (as it had done in the work of artists like Raphael, Rembrandt, van Gogh, Rothko and Warhol) but most of the time it was nothing more than a form of wall filler, decoration and distraction – a form of amusement. Great art works formed part of a visual debate about existence, and as in any debate some ideas and expressions were more convincing than others. It was the right and duty of every artist to pursue their art to the fullest, but there was no entitlement on the part of their audience to accept their work as profound, meaningful, and beautiful or something that could enrich their lives. I could see how Craig-Martin’s work would be highly instructive to young art students, conceptual artists and even graphic designers, but for me it had no meaning to my work.                                                


Before we left I.M.M.A we quickly went around Irish Art of the 1970s which proved to be a very strong representation of Modern Irish art, but also a store house of artistic ideas and styles now redundant. Le Broquey was represented by some of his strongest works, which reminded me that he did in fact have some small talent.


But my favourite work of the whole day was the photographic work Portrait of Alice Liddell, after Lewis Carroll (2004) by Vic Muniz in the Hearth exhibition downstairs. This photograph consisted of the image of a girl made up of hundreds of brightly coloured children’s toys on a white background. From a distance it looked like a beautiful Fauvist cum Pointillist painting, but up close one delighted in seeing all the different kinds of children’s toys that were piled up to form the shape of the girl. The meaning of the work was further deepened by being based on one of Lewis Carrol’s Victorian photographs of young girls (in this case Alice Liddell) which with my day’s concern for children were controversial to say the least. However, the full implications of this choice of image, was beyond me at the time – all I marvelled at was the cleverness and beauty of the way the image was made. Not only was it a beautiful image it was also smart and knowing in the best Post-Modern sense – summing up as it wittily did so many of the ideas of modernist representation and Post-Modern re-representation.

Philip Tracey and Howard Hodgkin 2006


At the end of the month I went with Carol to see When Philip Met Isabelle at the Collins Barracks Museum of Decorative arts, in had previously been on shown in the British Design Museum in London. Carol had suggested we go along to see it and I had agreed but with little enthusiasm. But what a show! It was absolutely brilliant! Isabelle Blow was a real throw back to the English eccentrics of the 1920s crossed with the avant-garde of the Brit art scene and punk. She discovered Tracey when he was studying in London and became his muse. Isabelle had Tracey move into the basement of her Belgravia house and made his name in London. Their hilarious story was the stuff of myth and every art student's dream. She had a passion for hats and the courage to wear the most outlandish creations Tracey could conceive. Together they made art - there is no finer way to put it. The exhibition was superbly staged - the all black walls adding super glamour to the whole affair. The hats inspired by flowers, shells, modernist sculptures and paintings, were at once hilarious and deadly serious - truly eccentric! The hats were objects of supreme craftsmanship and attention to detail combined with zany wit and a desire never to repeat the same design twice - a rebuke to so much so called 'art' of my day that failed to achieve any of the aforementioned. Leaving the exhibition my girlfriend I were giddy with life, thankful that such original minds and persona's can exist in the midst of the dreck of a tediously multi-national, pop culture world.                                                                     

Later after a Mocha and delicious sticky toffee pudding we went to IMMA where I wanted to see the paintings of Howard Hodgkin. As usual I.M.M.A served up a mixed bag of exhibitions of varying degrees of quality. First we looked around Abstraction x 3 a group show featuring the work of Hilma af Klint, Emma Kunz and Agnes Martin. It was claimed that their work “...developed artistic means for expressing, diagramming and understanding philosophical, scientific and transcendental ideas.” Such was the bullshit of contemporary art speak and it meant absolutely nothing. Inspecting the work gave no idea of such lofty ideals being met in plastic language. Instead, one saw tedious spirograph like abstractions by Emma Kunz and utterly pointless graphed white abstractions by Agnes Martin. That work that was so utterly useless as explanations for philosophical and relativity ideas could be passed off as such just showed the cretins and self absorbed solipsism of the art world at its worst. But the real crime was that as art works they were so dull, unskilled and boring. After all Mondrian and Kandinsky believed a lot of Theosophical mumbo-jumbo - but they also made plastic works of great beauty, colour and order.                                                                                                                          


The next exhibition we saw was Orla Barry's Portable Stones. Barry was a contemporary of mine. But unlike her I had not been offered bursary's, awards, residencies and countless exhibitions in Dublin and London. I was crippled by an ability to draw and paint, to think outside of the academic conceptual box and had a desire to make images that dealt with real meaty issues. Barry's work read like an earnest teenager who has a MFA and decided to bequeath to the world the weight and depth of her linguistic genius. The fact that her aphorisms were so utterly banal, so utterly contrived and so utterly irrelevant had meant that to those in the art world she was seen as highly significant and worthy of exhibition after exhibition. In my studio I had 51 notebooks crammed full of one liners and thoughts on the world, sometimes they made it into a painting or drawing, mostly I reserved such mental masturbation to my private life. But even if I did as Orla did, mechanically fill canvas after canvas with them, they would not have been shown, because they were filled with hate, originality and despair - nothing that could be politely contained in the Irish art world.                             

  
After the dross of Barry's work, we viewed the exhibition of drawings in the permanent collection. Many of the works were of dubious merit. One dismal and limp pencil drawing of a woman's head by Matisse stood out because if it were not for the name behind it this doodle would not stand up to anybody's judgment. Matisse I thought was a very over rated draftsman, but he had done so much better than this! However, there were some very strong drawings of poor Brazilian children by Brian Maguire, pencil drawings of Oak leaves by Tom Molloy, Satirical Post-Modern drawings by David Godbold, lithographs by Terry Winters, and a kitsch but beautiful permanent marker drawing on linoleum by Stephen Brandes.   

                                                                          
  
Once again, the seesaw of quality swung as we viewed the video work Silver Bridge by Jacky Irvine. This eight-piece video of footage of the bat enclosure of Dublin Zoo and other assorted animals culminated in a video piece of Jackie hanging off a silver bridge in a black dress like a bat. It took the prize from Orla Barry for self-indulgent artistic wank by someone who should have just quit art and gone into therapy, or join a hippie commune. These were the cretins that were exhibiting in the very gallery's that had turned me down flat over and over again! While I went mad with regret and failure - they exhibited and taught other in Art College to produce equally pretentious and obscure works for art world insiders.   
                                                                                           

I saved the Howard Hodgkin until last and it did not disappoint. Hodgkin's work had no great meaning; it was a call to the senses. Much was made of memory and the recollection of lost moments, but since these were Howard's memories, I had no way of telling how accurately his splashes and dashes of colour depicted his life. Hodgkin confirmed the rule that most abstract painters were never more than fourth rate figurative artists, and their conversion to abstraction was a clever strategic move. But as an abstract painter Hodgkin was really first rate. Sometimes his over use of dabs and dots of colour could be off putting. But at his best he was wonderful. In his best canvases his taste for colour was delicious. His best work from the late 1970s to the early 1990s were clearly the result of constant and renewed readjustment. His paint was also wonderfully nuanced, from thin glazes to rich creamy impasto's, from jabbed splashes to feathered lines to sweeping lunges of the loaded brush. This was art - as pure unadulterated joy. Sadly the work from the late 1990s were woeful - sloppy and hastily thrown together. There was none of the readjustment and rich calculation of the great works, and the larger scale was usually disastrous. I would not have been surprised if I had been told Hodgkin had an elephant helping him to paint these later work.