A bit of a Darwin sub-theme for me at the moment – this time a group show of nine contemporary artists responding to Darwin’s work on evolutionary theory and natural selection.
The title refers to the story of an exchange of letters between Alfred Russel Wallace and Charles Darwin – and of course, it was Wallace’s work on evolutionary theory that was the catalyst for Darwin’s On the origin of species.
There were a number of absolute gems in this exhibition:
Intelligent Design by Marcus Coates, a film installation of the failed attempts of giant tortoises on the Galapagos Islands to mate;
Tally by Mark Fairnington, a huge picture of a bull reminiscent of the detailed observational drawings that accompanied much nineteenth century empirical science;
Worm by Tania Kovats showing a cross-section of a wormery, the resulting disrupted strata of soil resembling an abstract painting;
Pre-retroscope V by Conrad Shawcross, which is beautifully described in the accompanying guide as a ‘poetically futile’ attempt to capture a moment of experience using a video camera on a 360 degree circuit. The accompanying wall display of found objects resembled a distorted version of the classic illustration of the ascent of man.
On a different level, I left wanting a summerhouse or conservatory in which to house collections of stuff like Ben Jeans Houghton’s On the ark and I.
Downstairs in the gift shop, the strangely apt ‘You don’t have to be a scientist to do experiments’ by Jeffrey Lewis was playing in the background. In a wittier moment, I might have made an elegant link back to Darwin’s position in the nineteenth century ‘gentleman amateur’ tradition of science.
A bit of a red theme to the weekend – friends who had recently ‘had their colours done’ are now insisting, tongue in cheek, that everyone can wear red.
Orhan Pamuk, My name is Red
An absolutely wonderful read. Set in Istanbul in the sixteenth century, this is a romance, a mystery and a series of fables told from a range of perspectives – including the main protagonists, a group of manuscript illustrators, as well as those of a dog, a horse… and the colour red:
‘My dear master, explain red to somebody who has never known red.’
‘If we touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat.If we took it between our lips, it would fill our mouths,. If we smelled it, it’d have the scent of a horse. If it were flower, it wqwould smell like a daisy, not a red rose.’
Rothko – the late series, Tate Modern
The highlight for me was the assembled Seagram murals – the Tate’s holdings combined with a number of pieces on loan – an artificial construction, admittedly, as it is not clear which panels Rothko intended to be used – but effective nonetheless. In the previous, smaller, Tate Rothko rooms, the overall impression given was of a cell for meditation. In a larger space and hung higher, as Rothko is said to have intended, the cumulative effect of the panels is more monumental and impressive.
Individually, the apparent simplicity of the works is misleading – as another room, in which Rothko’s paiinting techniques are examined illustrates – there is a varied use of texture and of layers of colour – so that, for example, a halo or eclipse effect separates out blocks of colour. In the panel shown above, the differentiation comes from what appears to be a pale ‘bloom’ on the background, which pushes the more solid block into the foreground.
This was a fascinating exhibition, disturbing but fascinating.
It was fascinating to see how Bacon used to convey human pain, loneliness, awkwardness and vulnerability – the distorted faces, the figures imprisoned behind painted bars, isolated figures in abstract landscapes.
Bacon’s personal story was inextricably linked with his work. The ‘archive’ room of torn and defaced photographs and sketches excavated from Bacon’s studio was one of the rooms that got the closest attention. This ephemera and the portraits of models/friends/lovers were far more affecting and moving than some of the later works which sought to represent literary themes.
Saturday – my final day in Paris, spent wandering along the banks of the Seine browsing the bookstalls, listening to the jazz buskers on the bridge to the Ile de la Cite, having a last coffee in the Latin Quarter, and visiting one last bookshop, the Village Voice.
Stein’s portrayal of early twentieth century Paris and the artistic and literary circles of which she was a mainstay, takes the form of the ‘autobiography’ of her companion, Alice B Toklas – essentially, Stein’s own self-aggrandising story. It is a fascinating counterpoint to Beach’s memoir, overlapping as it does, at a number of points. However, with Stein’s work, the form is as important as the content – as Stein writes about Georges Hugnet,
He liked the sound of her writing and then he liked the sense and he liked the sentences.
Well I liked the sound of her writing and I liked the sentences (despite disagreeing violently about commas) although I’m not always sure that I quite caught the sense!
What I did get a sense of was the very small world not only of literary and artistic Paris, but of the literate and mobile elite – where everyone could claim a connecton to everyone else. From Beach and from Stein, one also gets a picture of independent women taking positions of influence in society on their own terms.
Friday saw another successful exercise in crowd avoidance – an early trip to the Louvre, carefully avoiding the Mona Lisa in favour of the mediaeval remains of the Louvre, and the mediaeval and Renaissance art. Following that, a trip next door to the Musee des arts decoratif to visit the Valentino exhibition, to drool over the art deco and art nouveau furniture, and to puzzle over the rouge gallery, which juxtaposed items from various periods around a common theme of being red in colour.
An afternoon wander around the Latin Quarter involved a trip to Shakespeare and Company, another English language bookshop – not the original inter-war bookshop owned by Sylvia Beach - but quaint nonetheless, with a library and teashop on the upper floor.
It was here that I got a copy of Beach’s memoir about her bookshop and her recollections of her patrons, including Hemingway and Stein, and her experience of becoming the published to James Joyce. Not exactly well written – there is a drinking game to be constructed around the repetition of ‘and we became good friends’ – but a fascinating insight into the small world of literary Paris in the 1920s and 1930s.
Thursday was spent avoiding Impressionists – and therefore the crowds - in the Musee D’Orsay. I love this museum – the juxtaposition of nineteenth century shell and modern adaptation provides an incredible backdrop to the sculpture in the main hall. The art nouveau rooms were my favourites, and I also enjoyed the modern response by Christian Jaccard to a work by Breitner - knotty paintings both. There was a temporary exhibition of beautiful little dageurrotypes – not just portraits, but surprisingly journalistic shots of the barricades in Paris during the 1848 uprisings … as well as the inevitable early photographic forays into porn. The afternoon was then spent in my favourite Parisian museum, Musee Rodin, possibly the most peaceful and beautiful mainstream tourist attraction in Paris.
A trip to the American secondhand bookshop and tea-room, Tea and Tattered Pages, wasn’t fruitful in terms of purchases, but was worthwhile just for the character of the place. Another American bookstore, Brentano’s, yielded one of a series of mysteries by Cara Black about a private detective, Aimee Leduc, based in Paris.
A lovely evocation of Montmartre and a relatively high score on the mystery cliche-o-meter (private detective breaks the rules, a personal mission to clear the name of a friend, personal life in tatters). I would quite like to read a few more of these.
Beautifully illustrated as you might expect, but what really interested me was the background on the Wiener Werkstatte and particularly the work of Josef Hoffman.
Well worth reading for the essays on the relationship between fine art and applied art, illustrated though the collaboration between Klimt and the Wiener Werkstatte; and also for the essay on the way in which Hoffman redefined expectations about the relationship between exhibits and exhibition space (with a link through to the white space modern galleries of today).
After a day spent in the centre of Liverpool, looking a city that had chosen to turn itself into a building site in the cause of luxury apartments, executive offices and retail experiences, it was reassuring to know that it is possible for man to enhance his natural environment as well as desecrate it.
Think sinuous female forms and sumptuous fabrics. Think Klimt. Then think again – yes, the portraits of women were stunning, but there were also a series of beautiful square landscapes and a series of quite shockingly explicit drawings of female nudes. This exhibition really gave a good sense of Klimt’s broader range.
Klimt may be the headline act, but think of this as more of a festival, where you go for the all round experience. Yes, you get Klimt’s greatest hits…well, some of them…but this is really just part of a broader whole. I came away with a much greater understanding of Klimt’s place in the Viennese Secession of late 19th and early 20th Vienna; the relationship of that movement to the British Arts and Crafts movement and to later developments in art deco; and a series of further names to look out for, such as the architect, Josef Hoffmann.
A few minor criticisms of the curatorship – some of the lighting was very intrusive, with spots and trip lighting reflecting harshly on the glazing of the landscapes, and it was unfortunate that the Beethoven frieze had to be separated out on a separate floor to the main exhibition.
I managed to fit in two visits – one just after the gallery opened when I had the absolute luxury of having the gallery almost to myself…once I had explained to the staff how to swipe my member’s card, and reassured them that I really didn’t need to join the early morning crowd in a crush to see the Beethoven frieze for the second time!
A small but perfectly formed exhibition on books produced by artists - from books as subjects in art as well as illustrated texts – in a wide range of media from lead to a suitcase and even paper (of the exploding variety). The range of artists and approaches is staggering: including Louise Bourgeois, Anthony Caro, Damien Hirst, David Hockney, Henri Matisse….
The exhibition also features the output of the Ivory Press, which produces limited edition works by artists like Anish Kapoor. Ivory Press also produced the exhibition catalogue, which is a beautiful object in its own right….mmm art AND shopping…
Saturday – my final day in Paris, spent wandering along the banks of the Seine browsing the bookstalls, listening to the jazz buskers on the bridge to the Ile de la Cite, having a last coffee in the Latin Quarter, and visiting one last bookshop, the 
Friday saw another successful exercise in crowd avoidance – an early trip to the Louvre, carefully avoiding the Mona Lisa in favour of the mediaeval remains of the Louvre, and the mediaeval and Renaissance art. Following that, a trip next door to the Musee des arts decoratif to visit the 
Thursday was spent avoiding Impressionists – and therefore the crowds - in the Musee D’Orsay. I love this museum – the juxtaposition of nineteenth century shell and modern adaptation provides an incredible backdrop to the sculpture in the main hall. The art nouveau rooms were my favourites, and I also enjoyed the modern response by 
