visit Tate Britain Gallery and the Turner Prize stuff

[see the twitter tweet on the right]

As you may be able to imagine, I like writing about stuff, but I've avoided art, because artists are usually up their own butts all day. Anyway, here goes:

Gilbert and George showed how it's possible to make art that is at once gay and very penile-centred. Shocking. They screw (literally) with religious symbolism, family trees, anything.
[pic- a less-racy Gilbert & George work]

JWM Turner's works are all over the place. He was kept quite busy. I noticed that many of his Thames scenes had animals, like deer, wandering around. When's the last time anyone saw an animal of any size wandering near the Thames? It brought up an idea I've been chewing over. Beyond the hunting and general me-ism of everybody that makes wild animals totally expendible (I'll do another story soon), we've taken away most of their habitat.
The worst of all these things we do is the dual carriage-way (you ever see any carriages? neigh.) or highway. It makes no allowances for animals that want to go from here to there by crossing the road. It's impossible.
I've always said the Brits have too many highways and they're always under construction.

There was a painting that was mostly black and it was called 'black painting'. Naughty boy.

There was a Rothco-type painting, honestly called 'lines of paint' or something. Accuracy. Well done, my son. It's like a dance choreographer who once admitted 'life cannot be represented in dance'. It's the same with abstract splotches of paint. It's just bullsh*t, with a label on it, and it only works if you've got some art critics in your pocket. The best mind f&*()k is the ones called "unnamed". The artist just couldn't keep a straight face when the gallery owner Saatchi was writing out a cheque for 2 million currency units. He forgets to christen his ouevre and says "Here. Take it, before you change your mind," thinking 'I gotta give a royalty cheque to my favourite art critics. I owe it all to them'. xD

There was an interesting brass & wood crib toy hanging from the ceiling.

There was some sticks of wood stuck in plexiglass.

The Turner Prize show surprised me. I'd seen past shows from afar and rejected the stuff as post-intelligent crap.
[pic-Tracey Emin.conquests without a bedpost]
This year, some stuff actually made sense to me, dumb sh*t that I am. Three out of the four of them actually approached reality with a refreshing perspective, instead of being about the internals of the artist's anus.
The big themes were temporariness, mortality, loss of control and re-use. The explanations actually helped a bit, as did a 3-minute video from each artist.
Enrico David talked about the weakness of language for expressing stuff, but he was pretty good with language, if too intellectual.
One big clash for me was intellect versus feeling. One of the artists was right up her own backside, talking about stuff that only she and her tutor understood. She made no attempt to reach out to people and was begging us "look at me, I'm a spectacle". Waste of time.
The other three had something that moved the occasional soular molecule and caused some synapses to fire.
[pic- Enrico David]

Altogether, it was a rather sexually-charged happening.
I was expecting some dead-ass recluses in black
wandering around, clearing their phlegm.

Actually, there were some excited nubile ladies there.
It seemed like a mating ritual
with the art being the Viagra.
Me being neurotic, all I did was think about it.

There were cards for displaying your thoughts and most of the wankers there were cheering on one of the artists. Goofy idiots.
You can also write a comment for the 'cloud' on their website, but the only words allowed were from a list. A big problem with validity! But I had cunning fun with it anyway and sent it to my Twitter (see tweet on the right and follow #TurnerPrize and see what the other twats wrote).
Alas, it wasn't a haiku, but WFT.

-Cos67 ~(%^D>