Posts Tagged ‘east London’

Totally tripped out at Raven Row

Monday, June 22nd, 2009

You don’t necessarily need drugs to get high, as Ann Lislegaard’s art work proves. According to a page that is no longer available on norway.org (a Norwegian government website in various languages): “Bellona, the fictional city of Samuel R. Delany’s 1974 science fiction cult classic Dhalgren is a place beyond reason, where time and space is out of joint and architectural fixtures seem to be in constant flux and transformation. In Lislegaard’s video animation installation, Bellona is a psychological space, in which norms and standards seem to dissolve into a chaos of anti-hierarchical conditions.”

What norway.org has to say is fair enough if you want Lislegaard’s work explained ‘rationally’, but I found it more enjoyable to let the constantly moving images trip me out. Bellona is a psychedelic groove sensation, and for me it worked best at the opening of the current Raven Row show, when the room was very effectively blacked out because it was dark outside. I went to see it again at the weekend but there was a lot of sunlight bleeding through the shutters that covered the windows, and this reduced the intensity of the flashback effects the film delivered. You have to sit and let yourself go with this one, but once you adjust to the pace, the three screen looped projection will give you hours of drug free hallucinations.

Lislegaard’s other film currently on show at Raven Row is based on and named after J. G. Ballard’s sci-fi novel The Crystal World. Simon Sellars on the Ballardian website says: “I fully agree with her (Lislegaard’s) view of the novel: it’s a ‘mental space, a state of mind’, and that is really emphasised by her iterative work, which constantly chases its own tail. It’s shown on two screens, side by side, and takes place inside a modernist hotel which residually succumbs to the crystallising process described in the novel. Scenes loop back and subsequently fade and buckle from screen to screen under supersaturation of light, forcing you to constantly question the veracity of what’s come before, and where you are in the loop. Mirror images from one screen to another split off into parallel worlds/scene..” The Crystal World didn’t do much for me at the Raven Row opening, but going back and seeing it with daylight bleeding into the room, I was getting flashes of colour as I looked at this black and white work. Far out!

Just to clarify, Sellars is mistaken when he describes the building in Lislegaard’s film as a hotel. On the web page I’ve quoted him from, he reproduces the following Murry Guy gallery promotional blurb for the Crystal World film: “Lislegaard’s animation directly references the Brazilian architect Lina Bo Bardi’s 1951 Glass House, and the work of Robert Smithson and Eva Hesse, who investigated crystalline and organic structures as a means of articulating nonlinear time…” Bo Bardi was an important modernist architect, and the Glass House was her home, not a hotel. Esther da Costa Meyer in Harvard Design Magazine (Number 16, Winter/Spring 2002) says of the Glass House: “Though now part of the fashionable suburb of Morumbi, the Glass House once hovered over the remnants of the original rain forest… Suspended high above a sea of green, the building resembles an International Style treehouse. A swaying metal staircase connects the winding path to the living spaces above… Even though the entire area is now built up and the wildcats are long since gone, the lots are large and densely planted, and the Glass House is almost invisible from the road… the contrast between the abstract aesthetic of steel and glass and the lush green of the forest was an important element … For structure, Bo Bardi opted for that of the paradigmatic Dom-Ino house: spindly supports sandwiched daringly between two slabs of concrete. Thin, Corbusian pilotis, set back from the perimeter to permit a free facade, raise the glass box elegantly aloft. Le Corbusier was an obvious point of reference…”

Lislegaard also has an audio installation on at Raven Row, a condensation of the soundtracks to various sci-fi films entitled Science Fiction_3112. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to derive any flashback effects from this piece, and got far less neural stimulation from it than Lislegaard’s film-works. Exhibited alongside Lislegaard are Thomas Bayrle and international audio collective Ultra-Red. The documentation of Ultra-Red’s art activism left me cold. I presume participating in one of their public events is more enthralling. Bayrle’s hybrid minimal-pop sculptures showed the Raven Row space off to fantastic effect; forget the work (I find Bayrle boring), just check out the beautiful architectural achievement it so effectively sets off. The space is very light and airy, and there are many beautiful details; take a close look, for example, at the exquisite handrail on the stairs that take you down to the back gallery in which Bayrle’s work is shown.

Thomas Bayrle, Ann Lislegaard and Ultra-Red are on at Raven Row, 56 Artillery Lane, London E1 7LS, until 2 August 2009.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

John ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins in Shoreditch, a communist headache?

Saturday, June 20th, 2009

On Thursday night I took in the opening of the Hoppy (John Hopkins) exhibition Against Tyranny: Talking about a Revolutionary at Idea Generator on Chance Street in Shoreditch. The displayed photos date from the early and mid-sixties. Mostly they seemed to be straightforward examples of photojournalism and celebrity portraiture. There were also some freak graphics by people other than Hoppy, but connected to him via his involvement with the underground newspaper International Times. So what Idea Generator presents us with is very much an official history of one phase of the London counterculture. That said, it looked a little odd in east London, when so much of what was on display depicted west London more than 40 years ago.

The opening was too packed to be able to see the images properly, but what most interested me was coverage of ‘ban-the-bomb’ demonstrations. I didn’t clock Hoppy’s Doctor Steve Abrams portraits which I’ve roundly criticised elsewhere (do a word search to get to Abrams and Hoppy on this page) for:  “mimicking the depiction of male doctors and female hysterics in nineteenth-century medical paintings. Since some viewers were inevitably going to make a connection between these publicity japes and the earlier imagery upon which they so strikingly draw, Abrams left himself wide open to criticism for generating negative perceptions of both women and recreational drug users.” If these problematic images were on display, they were hidden in one of the nooks it was impossible for me to enter because of the crowds already there.

I couldn’t see enough of the show to make any real judgement of it; and beyond Joe Boyd and Hoppy himself, I spotted very few familiar faces from the sixties. I did manage to grab hold of Malcolm Dickson from Street Level Gallery in Glasgow, and as we needed to catch up, we ducked out for refreshments elsewhere. So I guess I’ll go back and see the show properly later, it is on until 19 July. The place was just too mobbed, with endless flashbulbs going off and professional film-makers getting in my way, to be pleasant.

Moving on, I hadn’t posted anything on YouTube for more than six months until yesterday because I was fed up with being censored on that site. As I’ve said elsewhere: “YouTube actually removed a parody of a Fluxus film for violating their rules. This was a countdown from 10 to 1, no images in it at all, just numerals. Presumably the problem was the joke title 10 Erotic Movies – it had more than twenty thousand hits before being taken down by the authoritarians who run that platform. If YouTube won’t allow a film like this, then Web 2.0 is a joke and we need to move on to Web 2.1, where we control the sites we’re posting on!”

But right now there is a new video of mine up on YouTube entitled Does Modern Art Give You A Headache? Check it out, and see how it emerged from an earlier blog on this site: Performing Localities: Recent Guatemalan Performance Art On Video.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org - you know it makes (no) sense!

Getting it on with Yvonne Rainer at The Whitechapel

Saturday, June 6th, 2009

Thursday night offered a rare chance to catch a public screening of Yvonne Rainer’s 1985 feature film The Man Who Envied Women at The Whitechapel Gallery in east London. The movie mixes fictional and documentary passages. The fictional sequences feature a character called Jack Dellar talking subjectively about the breakdown of his relationship with his second wife, while his ex’s speeches tend towards more general reflections on gender and related issues. The film begins with Dellar exercising in an apartment he’d shared with the woman, and from which she is collecting some of her possessions. From then on we mostly see Dellar, played by two different actors, in various situations – while the former wife is, with one vitally important exception, visually absent and represented only by a voice-over. The woman (dancer/choreographer Trisha Brown) is caught up in a reductive and essentialising feminist psychoanalytic discourse, while the man speaks from an equally trivial anti-essentialist viewpoint indebted to the likes of Foucault and Derrida. Although jargon heavy, the relentless spoken word passages are so theoretically lightweight that most viewers will not only be able to follow them with ease, but in all probability anticipate much of what is said. Given that The Man Who Envied Women is just over two hours long, this could make for a very boring movie were it not for Rainer’s deft juxtapositions and keen eye for human gesture.

The disjunction in places of image from the type of sound normally associated with it – for example, a scene where Jack Dellar and a French intellectual played by Jackie Raynal caress each other while exchanging ideological inanities – is reminiscent of letteriste cinema of the early 1950s, despite syncing on Rainer’s film. The fact that Raynal is intimately associated with the Zanzibar group will buttress this association for viewers familiar with the history of avant-garde cinema, since Zanzibar – far more than the overtly commercial ‘French new wave’ – was the real inheritor of the tradition of experimental film-making to be found in the lettriste films of Isou, Lemaître, Wolman, Debord and others. Nonetheless, The Man Who Envied Women looks more like the work of John Cassavetes than Zanzibar or the lettristes, due both to Rainer’s emphasis on body language and the simple narrative structure of its fictional sections. Visually the film is one day in the life of Jack Dellar, with the viewer being taken from early morning through his day time work as a college lecturer to a night time party; this is not, however, the intellectual structure of the movie, since a phone conversation alerts us to the fact that the action probably takes place over two days, and Dellar also speaks at some length about his two marriages and thus much of his adult life.

The visual narrative in the fictional sections is continuously interrupted by scenes in which Dellar sits on a stage with various films playing on a screen to his left, the viewer’s right, as he talks about both his relationships and his views on women. As these scenes accumulate, the camera pulls back to reveal a cinema audience watching the material playing beside Dellar. When a shift takes place from black and white Hollywood classics to the more contemporary (but still non-colour) Night of the Living Dead, the audience becomes restless and fights break out as a scene from Romero’s iconic zombie movie is repeated on a relatively short loop. In film theory zombies are often interpreted as representatives of the proletariat, but this is ignored in a voice-over that instead invokes Jean Eustache’s La maman et la putain AKA The Mother and the Whore (1973); a film whose structure Rainer simultaneously mirrors and inverts. In his three-and-a-half hour anti-epic with only a minimal narrative, Eustache explores a triangular relationship between a young man, his live-in girlfriend and a Polish nurse with whom he has an affair. By using two different actors to play the middle-aged Dellar, Rainer can be read as inverting the triangular arrangement of Eustache’s earlier film. Reversing this, when we focus on Dellar as a single character, and upon his insistence of his fidelity to his deceased first wife, and the implied claim that his second live-in relationship was little different to the casual affairs he carried on alongside it, Rainer can be viewed as preserving more-or-less intact the structure of The Mother and the Whore.

At one point as Dellar speaks from the stage, documentary footage of  Trisha Brown performing her ‘real life’ solo dance piece Water Motor is screened. This was shot in Merce Cunningham’s New York dance studio by Babette Mangolte at the end of 1978. The original footage is used in its entirety and Brown’s performance is mesmerising. In The Man Who Envied Women, Brown plays Dellar’s estranged wife. Thus while we see much more of the male lead during the film, its most spectacular visual image is of Dellar’s female counterpart dancing, and inevitably this sequence will stay with most viewers far longer than anything else shown on screen; or indeed, the instantly forgettable verbal clap-trap on the soundtrack.

What Rainer seems to be telling us is to forget about ridiculously contrived psychoanalytic notions such as that of ‘male gaze’ and instead to focus on the body and the joys of the body. Her critique is not so much of feminism per se, but rather of those strands of feminism that draw heavily on psychoanalysis, a discourse rooted in the chauvinist fantasies of Sigmund Freud. Ultimately, Rainer’s film is more effective as an assault on psychoanalytically rooted film ‘theory’ than Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. While Clover’s text succeeds in exposing a number of obvious flaws in the notion of ‘male gaze’ as deployed by the over-privileged and Oxford ‘educated’ (i.e. brainwashed) husband-and-wife instant film ‘expert’ team of Laura Mulvey and Peter Woolen, it is unfortunately still mired in fatuous nonsense propagated by the likes of Freud and Lacan.

Rainer plays with theory and among other things shows that when it is removed from the world, in other words when it is not rooted in a materialist perspective, it becomes ridiculous. In Rainer’s fictional narrative Dellar’s ex is an artist, but the kind of art she produces is never specified; she may even be a dancer and choreographer like Brown. She is losing her studio because the landlord has hiked up the rent. This strand about gentrification in the fictional narrative is one of a number of themes that mesh with and become indistinguishable from its ‘documentary’ counter-cum-complimentary scenes. Documentary footage of a public meeting about the gentrification of downtown Manhattan is woven in and out of the entire film. The mood at this meeting is emotional and several of the artists shown testifying against gentrification come across as ineffectual in a ‘real life’ setting; easily the best public speaker at the event is a mixed-race working-class man who points out that no private landlord in his neighbourhood has rented a property to a black or Spanish speaking tenant in the past year.

There is another thread of documentary footage without sync sound, this shows a group of people gathered in what I assume is Leon Golub’s studio, since an assortment of his representational paintings adorn the walls. Golub’s work may have been chosen for use in this context because within it he explicitly addressed political questions raised by the issues of power and violence. That said, despite the fact there is no sound, this looks to me like a meeting of Artists Call Against U.S. Intervention in Central America, an action group founded in 1983 and in which Golub was a prominent activist. Like the overtly documentary footage highlighted in the previous paragraph, this sequence of scenes offers those with some knowledge of New York culture and politics the pleasures and pitfalls of attempting to identify the people caught-on-camera. Aside from Golub, other relatively well-known figures to be seen in the documentary segments of The Man Who Envied Women include artist Jon Hendricks, and critics Lucy Lippard and Robert Storr.

A third and perhaps final thread in the film straddles the divide between the fictional and the non-fictional, since within it  several graphics are juxtaposed on the wall of Jack Dellar’s apartment. Prominent among them is Claes Oldenburg’s three-colour, single-sided, poster for Artists Call Against U.S. Intervention in Central America (1984). This print hovers indeterminately between art and the world of political activism; it was distributed in an unsigned and unnumbered edition of twenty-thousand copies. It features a list of artists protesting against US government policies in Central America, with a silhouette of some people using a rope to topple a giant banana adding visual impact. Pointedly, this poster is never discussed in the film, although other graphics ranged alongside it are interrogated at length by the off-screen voice of feminist artist Martha Rosler. The images ‘deconstructed’ by Rosler range from a photograph of peasants murdered by the Guatemalan army during the civil war in that country, a magazine cover featuring the face of a man ‘broken by the KGB’, and print adverts for cigars and pain relief products.

While the individual elements I’ve described are all relatively simple and easy to grasp, juxtaposed they constitute a complex whole. Nonetheless, The Man Who Envied Women remains very playful and entertaining, and I was therefore surprised that quite a few audience members walked out during the screening. This may have had more to do with the new removable seating in the Whitechapel cinema than Rainer’s movie. I made the mistake of sitting in the front row and if I sat upright in my chair my head obscured a good portion of the projection, and the same was true for people at least one and possibly more rows behind me. This meant that we had to slump uncomfortably in our chairs to avoid spoiling other people’s enjoyment of the screening. The poor set up in the cinema is yet another example of Whitechapel director Iwona Blazwick’s obsession with maximising revenue streams and not giving a shit about aesthetic issues; for more on this see my earlier post The great Whitechapel Gallery expansion disaster of 2009.

Before Rainer there was a screening of the 1979 short Sigmund Freud’s Dora: A Case of Mistaken Identity directed by Anthony McCall, Claire Pajaczkowska, Andrew Tyndall, Ivan Ward and Jane Weinstock. This not only utilises an extremely dull psychoanalytic text on the soundtrack, it deploys an incredibly ugly actor Joel Kovel to play the Viennese quack and a very pretty girl, Silvia Kolbowski, as Dora. The camera work is deliberately static and dull, the opening is simply a set of lips, provided by Suzanne Fletcher, reciting psychoanalytic nonsense, while on screen text is used to run through an apparently random sequence of events – Darwin dies, Nietzsche declares God is dead, Marx dies, the machine gun is invented, etc. Some viewers might find this funny, but anyone already familiar with, for example, the potted history of the cinema provided by Guy Debord in his 1952 film Screams In Favour of De Sade, is likely to view it as fifth-rate. And again, after lettriste cinema, one wonders why anyone would bother with the type of anti-visual aesthetic deployed in this film. The insertion of pornography and television adverts between scenes appears to be an attempt at humour, but all it really does is flag up how hopeless Sigmund Freud’s Dora is as a film. At the end there are more heavy-handed ‘laughs’ in the form of Dora’s mother, played by Anne Hegira, reading a series of postcards from her daughter – we can see that many of these missives feature pornographic images on one side, and thus couldn’t possibly have been sent through the post (unless, of course, they’d been placed in an envelope first).

The point of this exercise in ‘structuralist cinema’, if there is one, seems to be that while Freud concludes that Dora has asthma due to a repressed oral sex fixation, the real cause of her condition was being forced to hang-out with cigar chomping bourgeois scum and having her throat and lungs constantly irritated by passive smoking. I get the feeling from Sigmund Freud’s Dora that the directors suffer from all the usual hierarchical delusions popular among Leninist reactionaries and their fellow travellers in the sub-avant-garde of the 1970s. While the idealist fallacies of the structuralist ‘elite’ about raising their audience/cadre from the tomb of formalism were always laughable, that didn’t stop Anthony McCall and Andrew Tyndall from making even worse movies than this one; for example, the feature-length Argument (1978).

Subsequently, McCall compromised himself further by making his peace with the art establishment; and he has erased, as far as possible, his pseudo-radical past. If you really want to know about his youthful follies then check out Argument at Ubu web; but if you do, as even greater punishment, I’d suggest a viewing of Isaac Cronin and Terrel Seltzer’s Call It Sleep (1982). Yes, there are film-makers whose work is worse than McCall and Tyndall! That said, you’d do far better renting My Name Is Bruce or Walter Hill’s The Warriors (1979) than watching McCall and Tyndall’s crap. The Warriors, which was theatrically released on 9 February 1979, also contains a lips speaking to screen oral sex invocation sequence – and this may have influenced the opening of Sigmund Freud’s Dora. Regardless, it was worth putting up with the full forty lousy minutes of McCall and company’s structuralist spew on Thursday night, simply to see The Man Who Envied Women afterwards.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

Holy Armageddon Batman! A Richard Grayson Opening at Matt’s Gallery in London!

Tuesday, May 12th, 2009

I went to the Sunday afternoon opening of Richard Grayson’s The Golden Space City of God at Matt’s Gallery (42-44 Copperfield Road, London E3 4RR) on 10 May. Some drapes and stacked chairs, designed to make the gallery look like a community space, formed a minor part of an installation. The main item was a 45 minute film of a choir singing a libretto that had been assembled by Grayson from writings he’d found on the website of Christian fundamentalist cult The Family International (formerly The Children of God And The Family of Love). The music is composed by Leo Chadburn.

The content of the libretto is bog standard Christian fundamentalist bollocks based on The Book of Revelation. Given that The Family started out as a hippie cult you get a few space-age trimmings, but nothing that would surprise anyone who knows the first thing about the forces that potentially threaten the liberty of those who aren’t dyed-in-the-wool religious nuts. The Family view current events as demonstrating that Tribulation has arrived; i.e. the period when Christians are persecuted and the Anti-Chirst rules. According to those that believe this rot, following on from this comes the Battle of Armageddon, at the conclusion of which Christ defeats the Anti-Christ and faithful Christians are rewarded with everlasting life in heaven in the form of The Rapture. The insane beliefs which form the core of Grayson’s libretto are well known outside Christian circles; hence, for example, the jokey title of Blondie’s huge 1981 hit single Rapture.

Despite widespread allusions to Christian fundamentalist eschatology in both popular and underground culture (see also, for example, the books and films of The Church of The SubGenius), Andrew Brighton in an essay accompanying the Matt’s Gallery exhibition suggests: “Richard Grayson’s shocking achievement is to bring into the cultural and institutional frame of modern art such a dangerously hostile set of ideas, values and prophecies as offered in The Golden Space City of God and persuade us to hold or consider or at least comprehend them…”

Aside from the blatant stupidity of this statement – since anyone with an interest in the world around them or even just recent American popular culture,  should be familiar with Christian fundamentalist beliefs – it is also rather rich coming from an ignoramus like Andrew Brighton. This former Senior Curator at Tate Modern is a complete tosser with a long history of blocking from entry into the institution of art anything that disturbs his bourgeois views. Like most liberals, Brighton claims to be defending enlightened and democratic values, which in practice leads to the suppression of free and open debate. To give just one example, he personally blocked an essay about me by Richard Marshall from appearing in Critical Quarterly on the grounds that I stand for the destruction of everything he holds dear. If you want to read the essay, it was subsequently posted on the 3AM Magazine website.

Returning to Grayson, his libretto certainly amused one of the women who sang it, you can see her lips curling upwards and her eyes twinkling when she doesn’t have to sing. I’m sure many other members of the choir felt the same way about the work they were performing, although most are so focused on their singing that they aren’t able to smile. Since I didn’t have to do anything more than watch the film of this choir, I was able to give vent to a good belly laugh while I was at Matt’s Gallery. And I’m sure many other visitors to Grayson’s installation will laugh long and loud too.

The installation set-up resulted in it being difficult to spend much time speaking to people at the opening. I clocked the likes of Andrew Brighton and Mark Wallinger but didn’t exchange any kind of pleasantry with them and wouldn’t want to. I did say ‘hi’ and little else to Andrew Wilson and Ingrid Swenson, among others.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

Performing Localities: Recent Guatemalan Performance Art On Video

Friday, May 8th, 2009

There were two evenings of screenings and talks about Guatemalan live art at Iniva in Shoredtich on 5 & 6 May (2009). On both nights six videos lasting around 40 minutes in total were followed by a talk that went on a little longer. The panel on the first night consisted of London-based curator Joanne Bernstein and her Guatemala City counterpart Rosina Cazali. Among other things, they outlined the political background to contemporary cultural production in Guatemala. This might partly be summarised by explaining that mid-twentieth century land reforms in Guatemala led to a CIA sponsored coup in 1954; then after a presidential assassination three years later and other internal troubles, there followed a civil war that only ended in 1996.

The neocolonialist exploitation of Latin America by the United Fruit Company, whose economic interests were being defended by the United States government when it intervened in Guatemala was not mentioned, presumably in the interests of keeping the session relatively short and simple. What was outlined was the policy of genocide towards the mainly rural native American population, the destruction of hundreds of Mayan villages, and the systematic murder by the US supported Guatemalan regime of thousands of civilians who became known as the disappeared.

On the Tuesday night three videos by Regina José Galindo, probably the best known contemporary Guatemalan artist, were screened. The first of these We Loose Nothing By Being Born (2000) was the best of them. In this Galindo lies naked in a clear plastic bag (with holes in it to allow her to breath) at a landfill site on the edge of Mexico City; the soundtrack is simply ambient city noise captured as the piece was filmed. As with many of Galindo’s works, a strong and deceptively simple image is created. On the one hand Galindo in the bag might be taken as a representation of a baby in its mother’s womb; on the other, she is simultaneously invoking the unidentifiable bodies of the disappeared that are found abandoned in many parts of Latin America and bagged up before being buried. Aside from the obvious birth/death dialectic at work here, the setting and surreality of the image also reminded me of those Jeff Keen movies (particularly White Dust, 1972) set in the Whitehawk landfill dump on the edge of Brighton in England.

Performing Localities was billed as consisting entirely of videos screened ‘for the first time in the UK’, which put the curators of this event at a major disadvantage as far as Galindo was concerned, since a mid-career retrospective of her work, The Body Of Others, was hosted by Modern Art Oxford from 31 January to 29 March this year. Thus the pick of her work had already been shown in the UK, and as a consequence two of the three Galindo pieces screened on the first night of Performing Localities could be viewed as second-rate. That said, what these screenings also brought home is that a bad Galindo piece is often better than the most outstanding work of her contemporaries on the Guatemala City live art scene.

Weight (2005) documents a four day performance in the Dominican Republic during which Galindo ate, slept and performed all her daily tasks shackled by heavy chains. Given Galindo’s encasement in slave manacles, the work is first and foremost concerned with colonial exploitation, although the programme notes suggested the piece is also more generally about: “the limitations placed on women… in Central America’. The video contains some nice images but is ultimately unsatisfactory. The majority of films showing Galindo’s actions are straightforward point and shoot exercises, and often they are very grungily framed. There may be time lapses but in part their effect depends upon the viewer believing that any editing has been minimal. I wasn’t surprised when during a talk she gave at Modern Art Oxford, Galindo insisted that it is her actions which are her art, while the videos and photographs of them are simply something she sells to sustain herself. This accounts for their rough documentary feel; on the whole – despite a very different content – they don’t look much different from thousands of home videos you can see posted on YouTube.

With Weight there is self-evident manipulation of the filmed material. For example, Galindo is shown singing, the video then cuts to her walking in her manacles while the singing on the soundtrack continues, and finally we see her singing again. Clearly these images have not been run in their original chronological sequence, and their clumsy manipulation completely undermines the deceptive sense of simplicity that gives her work so much of its power. The imagery within Weight made me think of Spanish exploitation director Jess Franco’s women-in-prison movies such as 99 Women (1969), Devil’s Island Lovers (1974), Barbed Wire Dolls (1975)  and Ilsa, the Wicked Warden (1977). I doubt that this is a connection Galindo was looking to make, but given Franco’s ongoing popularity it is inevitably one that is going to crop up in some viewers’ minds. Another possibly inappropriate association that occurred to me is the use of harnesses to tie members of the British performance art collective Ddart together during their durational works of the 1980s.

The third Galindo work screened on Tuesday night was Bitch (2005). In this, Galindo sits on a chair and carves the word ‘perra’ (bitch or whore) into the flesh of her left thigh with a knife. I understand the intention is to invoke the disfiguring of women that is part and parcel of male sexual violence in Guatemala. From the video it is evident that Galindo finds cutting herself painful, and while I’m left impressed by her determination to follow through on ideas she has for her actions, I end up thinking more about this than the general situation of women in Guatemla. Likewise, the performance is too obviously premeditated, whereas sexual violence more usually has the appearance of being spontaneous – even when it isn’t, and despite the fact it springs from a long-established patriarchal culture. This particular work also struck me as being little different in its ultimate effect to talentless rock idol Richey Edwards using a razor blade to carve the phrase “4 REAL” into his arm as a publicity stunt to promote his group the Manic Street Preachers. Fans of Marina Abramovic will probably love both that and this piece by Galindo, but since I think Abramovic and The Manics suck, I am unimpressed.

Moving on, Your Tortillas My Love (2004) by Sandra Monterroso did nothing at all for me. It showed the artist making tortillas and looking almost as bored as I felt watching it. Something may have been lost in translation, because within it Monterroso speaks some Mayan, and this was accompanied by both Spanish and English subtitles, with the latter being at some points completely scrambled and very clearly not the work of a native speaker. According to notes circulated to accompany the screening, the ‘artist appears to be in an obsessive trance’. I’m not convinced by this and see the entire thing as a piece of fakery, despite the assertion by the curators that Monterroso’s work is a ‘magic incantation’ to evoke ‘the gap between Latin and Mayan cultures’. Her video was easily the worst thing screened over the two nights, and at 16 minutes it was also the longest!

Detachment (2007) by Maria Adela Diaz showed two women in matching red dresses that had been stitched together, and as they attempted to move in different directions, the stitching came apart. This created a colourful image but even if as the notes available on the night suggested, this was a daughter seeking independence from her mother, the women should have donned matching slips and bras to take it a little closer to formalist perfection. Personally I’d have preferred the work if the women had been more evenly matched in stature, rather than one being large and the other small. The last film of the first evening was Angel Poyon’s Litanies (2008), a recitation of names of disappeared persons interrupted by questions and a plea for one of them to return from the dead. For non-Spanish speakers such as myself, the work would have been more effective if the names of the missing had been subtitled alongside the other pieces of speech, then I could have been more certain I wasn’t missing anything during those portions of the video that weren’t subtitled.

Wednesday night kicked off with films from Anibal Lopez who was born in 1964, rather than the early to mid-1970s like the rest of those featured in Performing Localities. Lopez is a crucial connection between the younger artists and the preceding generation, and in their earlier days also between this younger generation and the wider international art scene. Lopez acted as a mentor to many of the younger artists and after Galindo, he is probably the best known among them. The first of his films, Roll of 120m x 4m Black Plastic Hanging From The Incienso Bridge (2003), showed a long ribbon of plastic being attached to a bridge and then floating in the air above a valley. It looked like Christo on crack to me, and that is praise indeed!

Another video by Lopez, One Ton Of Books Dumped On Reform Avenue, was the single best piece screened during Performing Localities. It showed a dumper truck halting in the middle of a busy street, discarding its load of used books and moving off; local traffic is disrupted and has to manoeuvre around this pile of rubbish, and before long pedestrians are in the middle of the road, picking through the abandoned publications and taking anything that interests them. This work reminded me of the largely unrealised plans George Maciunas laid out for disrupting high cultural activities and harassing middle class commuters in his Fluxus New-Policy Letter No.6 (dated 6 April 1963).  In this, Maciunas famously advocated the disruption of the New York transportation system via pre-arranged break-downs at strategic points on the city road system during the rush hour.

One Ton Of Books also inclined me to the view that Lopez is probably an unreliable guide to his own work; books are extremely dense and heavy objects, and from my experiences of moving large quantities of them, I’d guess that the weight of books dumped on Reform Avenue was far more than the rhetorical ton used in the title of the piece. This, of course, also made me wonder whether the length of plastic used in the previous piece really was 120 metres, or if it was some other length. On reflection, I figured the length given looked about right for the plastic shown in the film.

The title of the final Lopez film screened on Wednesday night appears to have been inaccurate if its English translation is correct: Sculpture Composed of 500 Boxes of Contraband Transported from Paraguay to Brazil (2007). For this, Lopez paid smugglers to transport empty boxes into Brazil, there was no contraband inside them and it looked to me like there was a lot less than 500 of them. Unless this was a double bluff, and Lopez hid drugs in some of the boxes or used his art piece as a decoy to fool the cops while some real smuggling went down, the work is slight and silly. That said, it brought to mind the activities of British artist Francis Morland, who in the 1960s smuggled hash inside his fibre-glass sculptures (but he pursued this as a money-making criminal activity, rather than as art). No doubt the smugglers Lopez employed are more than happy to be paid to participate in no risk operations but that hardly makes for riveting viewing, and what I saw looked weak in comparison to the other Lopez videos screened during Performing Localities.

Far better was Dario Escobar’s 12 Minutes, 8 Seconds (2008), which consisted of a fixed shot of a lit cigarette placed on a public fountain and filmed until it had burnt down to the butt and the remains were blown away by the wind. Like We Loose Nothing By Being Born and  One Ton Of Books, this piece was a real groove sensation! You knew there would be a pay-off when the ash fell from the cigarette, and the way this was stretched out proved a real gas. And again, like One Ton Of Books, this piece made me think of Fluxus, and  in particular of its simple instructional performances that were theorised by Maciunas as the ‘monomorphic neo-haiku flux-event’ and which he counterposed to the self-indulgence of the ‘mixed media neo-baroque happening’. Needless to say, the soundtrack to 12 Minutes, 8 Seconds was simply ambient city noise captured as the film was made!

A further Galindo video, Survival Skills Course For Men & Woman Preparing To Travel Illegally To The United States (2007), was screened on Wednesday. The film was shot in Mexico and showed a survival instructor hired by Galindo teaching useful skills to a group of people planning to enter the USA illegally via its southern border. This piece had definitely been shown in the UK before since it was included in the recent Galindo retrospective at Modern Art Oxford. But that said, as far as I can tell it was the only video to have had a prior UK outing, although at least one of the other films shown has been available for viewing online.

The last video screened was a 5 minute extract from Jessica Lagunas’ 120 Minutes Of Silence. Unlike all the other artists included in these two nights of screenings, Lagunas was born in Nicaragua rather than Guatemala. She currently lives in New York but was included both because she makes work explicitly about Guatemala, and likewise when she lived in Guatemala City she worked at the same advertising agency as Galindo and Diaz (obviously this was before Galindo became a professional artist). Lagunas has described 120 Minutes Of Silence in the following way: “From one-yard of camouflage fabric, a person cuts along the solid shapes for two-hours, honoring the 40,000 disappeared victims during the 36-year civil war in that country”. The audience at Iniva was extremely restless during the projection of this brief extract; coughing, knocking over drinks and shuffling in seats, therefore at the time it was impossible to determine whether Lagunas (or the person performing the piece for her if it was not Lagunas) was attempting to make as little noise as possible while snipping at the fabric, or if the sound had simply been stripped off the video footage. To me the work would have been more powerful if the former had been the case, but online searches led me to conclude that the film is simply silent. From Lagunas’ description as quoted above, the similarity of these pieces to Fluxus works and scripts once again becomes evident, this is a simple live event that anyone – not just the artist who wrote it – could perform.

The panel talk after the Wednesday screenings was between Professor Oriana Baddeley from Camberwell School of Art in south London, Julian Stallabrass from the Courtauld Institute of Art in The Strand, and Rosina Cazali. Unfortunately the discussion was completely moribund because Baddeley began by challenging the curatorial premise of  a Guatemalan art upon which the screenings were based, suggesting that perhaps the pieces we’d seen had a more universal validity. While someone else might have turned this into an interesting argument, Baddeley was unable to do so and it appeared she knew virtually nothing about the work she was on stage to talk about. She made a couple of tenuous and completely generalised comparisons with currently fashionable artists – Cildo Meireles from Brazil who recently had a big retrospective at Tate Modern, and the pathetic Santiago Sierra (the subject of an April Fools Day hoax on this blog just over a month ago). Baddeley is apparently an ‘expert’ on Mexican art, particularly murals and painting, but evidently doesn’t understand that in order to deal with the general one must also address the specific; and in this instance that would mean referencing both the works that had been screened and knowing something of the history of live art – she said virtually nothing about either. Having pushed the discussion up a blind alley, Baddeley was absolutely determined to keep it there, and thus the Wednesday talk was very dull in comparison to the discussion the night before.

Overall Performing Localities was still an exciting event, highlighting work that would be ignored by the London art world if it was being produced in Europe but that can find an audience here – although it doesn’t have much of one Guatemala – because right now Latin American (and particularly Mexican and Brazilian) culture is fashionable. Successful European artists tend to make slicker but duller work than Galindo and Lopez, and most have had their mind shackled by a formal art training. None of the artists featured in Performing Localities attended art school, they are autodidacts who created a scene through mutual support. Possibly that is why academics like Baddeley are presently incapable of talking about this work, they are so trapped inside the bourgeois art box that they simply don’t understand anything that comes from outside it. Only once this work, its historical precedents and the scene around it, have been more fully mapped out, will the likes of Baddeley suddenly discover a way to understand it. In the meantime, Baddeley – who evidently didn’t even know that it wasn’t the Guatemalan label that held these artists together, but rather the fact that they’d created their own small scene in that territory – remains an impediment to more interesting cultural developments.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

William Blanchard in Redchurch Street, or the death of art spells the murder of artists, the real anti-artists appear….

Wednesday, May 6th, 2009

Although The Maurice Einhardt Neu Gallery (30A Redchurch Street, London E2 7DP) has set opening times, it doesn’t always stick to them. I was curious about their William Blanchard show (24 April -6 May 2009), but whenever I turned up to see it, the joint was closed. Fortunately, at 15,24 on 4 May 2009, I got the following text message: “William Blanchard show open now for 3 hours. Sexton.” The message was from Martin Sexton who runs the Artwars Project Space on the opposite side of the street, and who’d kindly agreed to text me when the Blanchard show was viewable.

Stopping only to finish the cup of coffee I’d just made, I jumped on my bicycle and peddled furiously all the way from the Isle of Dogs to Shoreditch. Once more the space was locked but after I’d banged on the door for a bit, gallery director Martin J Tickner opened up. He apologised for the fact that there were amplifiers and other pieces of musical equipment immediately in front of the single wall on which Blanchard’s work was hung, explaining: “The boys came back from doing a gig last night and we haven’t stored their gear away yet.” I’d heard the gallery was also used as a music rehearsal studio and knew that Tickner’s partner in the gallery was Sean McLusky, who’d had five minutes of fame with the hit song Boxerbeat in the 1980s, when he’d been in boy band JoBoxers.

Moving on, William Blanchard’s work is very punk rock, being both slapdash and not very good. The pieces were assemblages and/or crude collages within box-like frames, plus a solitary sculpture entitled Rocking Unicorn (price £199.99). The two best pieces are American Buns (18.3′ x 13.7′, price £199.99) and Tiger Bruce Lee (16′ x 12.5′, price £99.99). The later shows a still of Bruce Lee from the fight scene with Han at the climax of Enter The Dragon with his teeth bared in anger, and pasted next to this is a roaring tiger! American Buns features a photograph of a nude model holding her breasts collaged over a shooting target, above the model’s bleached hair is a fragment of newspaper with the headline ‘This Is America”, on either side are pieces of a paper US  flag and, at the bottom of the work, a wrapper emblazoned with the words ‘American Buns’ that incorporates the US flag into its design; finally there is an empty can of coke with a small American flag protruding from it, sitting on a shelf on the left-hand side of the assemblage. The classic red, white and blue colour scheme is one of the factors that help this piece almost work aesthetically; likewise. the predominant yellow of Tiger Bruce Lee is what lifts that collage from being simply bad, to being so bad it is good. Other pieces, such as Bugz 1 and Bugz 2 (both 19′ x 17′ and priced at £199.99), which consist of rubber bug toys arranged in lines in a box, are merely crap.

I’d wanted to see Blanchard’s show because a press release claimed his inspiration came from Joesph Cornell and Wallace Berman. The Cornell influence I could just about see, albeit filtered through the prism of punk rock failure, but where Berman came into the equation wasn’t evident to me. So I asked Martin Tickner about this:

TRIPPY: I can’t really see the Wallace Berman influence in this, and that was why I wanted to see the show, because it supposedly took up his esoteric interests. Berman has a very specific relationship to Jewish mysticism.

TICKNER: I suppose it’s more Joseph Cornell in the work. I don’t know much about Wallace Berman myself.

TRIPPY: Did you see the Wallace Berman show at Camden Arts Centre?

TICKNER: No, but there’s a Berman show on in Spitalfields right now.

TRIPPY: Really? Where?

TICKNER. In Spitalfields, in the place owned by the son of J. Sainsbury.

TRIPPY: You mean Alex Sainsbury’s gallery Raven Row. That’s not a Berman show, that’s a Ray Johnson exhibition.

For me, what Tickner had to say summed up everything that is good about The Maurice Einhardt Neu Gallery; in short, its total disconnection from the London art world. The space is pure grunge with black walls, strip lights and other than a grimy window, absolutely no other illumination. Despite the gallery’s self-evident status as a rock ‘n’ roll toilet, there is nonetheless an aura of fakery about the place, since its famous art world friends – as listed on its website – allegedly include figures such as Robert Motherwell and Dieter Roth, both of whom died before it was even founded. Assemblage is absolutely the most ridiculous exhibition I’ve seen for some time, and that’s high praise indeed for a show in which a few works are so bad they are good, with the rest being simply… well shit!

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

There is no beginning, there is no end, the counterculture goes on forever…

Monday, May 4th, 2009

The London Zine Symposium 2009 took place at The Rag Factory (16-18 Heneage Street, London  E1 5LJ)  yesterday, Sunday 3 May. As an event, it occupies the ground between Publish & Be Damned (with its self-published art focus) and the Anarchist Book Fair (for those committed to full-on and weekend variety anarchist life-styles). There were a lot of familiar faces on the stalls at the Zine Symposium ranging from Mark Pawson (who can also be seen at Publish & Be Damned) to Active Distribution (who favour the Anarchist Book Fair). I was at the top of Brick Lane at lunch time before making my way to the Zine Symposium, and the Whitechapel Anarchist Group (all two of them) were out in force selling their publication WAG in front of the Beigel Bake. Later they were manning a stall down the road at the Zine Symposium. The anarchists somehow managed to constitute themselves as a separate fraction within this event, although the art elements appeared to dominate in terms of the stalls, reflecting the fact that Published & Be Damned is currently the biggest annual bring-and-buy self-publishing event in London.

There were a bunch of readings, workshops and debates, but I only attended Alternative Visions: comics, zines and politics since the 1970s at 2.30pm. The event was dominated by Roger Sabin, a reader in popular culture at Central Saint Martins College of Art. He was assisted by Teal Triggs, Professor of Graphic Design at the London College of Communication. After their own presentations, Sabin and Triggs put a few questions to Isy from Morgenmuffel and Edd from Hey Monkey Riot/Last Hours zines. I had difficulties with the way Sabin treated the hippie and punk subcultures as ultimately distinct, since I feel they are more closely entwined than he assumed, and I also find he takes the rhetoric of those involved with such scenes rather too seriously. However, my main problem with Sabin’s presentation was that he didn’t really deal with the economic and technological factors that have driven change in zine and comic production over the past forty years. However, his ideological idealism didn’t really surprise me given that I’ve never found Sabin’s academic work on subculture very satisfactory, as my ten year old review of his book Punk Rock, So What? indicates (see text in right column of link for this).

As the afternoon wore on, more and more people I knew – starting with Malcolm Hopkins and concluding with Richard Essex – drifted off to The Pride Of Spitalfields. I looked into the pub, but then decided to try to catch the William Blanchard AKA Wildcat Will show Assemblage at the Maurice Einhardt Neu Gallery in Redchurch Street. That exhibition space turned out to be closed and locked up; but as I headed up to it, I did see Jimmy Cauty making his way towards his car, and Martin Sexton standing outside his Artwars Project Space on the other side of the street from the Maurice Einhardt Neu Gallery.

Martin told me Jimmy had just been in to see his joint show with Dominique Lacloche, Beneath The Pavement… The Beach, which was coming down that very night. This joint effort between Sexton and Paris based Lacloche is certainly one of the crazier art manifestations I’ve seen on Redchurch Street in recent years, featuring as it did giant leaves on which photographs have been developed, a levitation machine and a mask of Socrates made out of a 4.5 billion year old meteorite. It made sense to me that a former member of the KLF would have been visiting it. I haven’t seen Jimmy for a couple years, and the weekend just gone was an interesting one for passing people without speaking to them; this started late on Friday afternoon when I’d walked past Liam Gillick on the stairs at Book Works, as he’d been making his way up to the editorial floor of the building, and I’d been leaving. There were a few people I’d avoided speaking to at the Zine Symposium as well, but they shall remain nameless.

Martin Sexton talked me through a few of his innumerable upcoming plans. One that I suspect will remain unrealised is for a psychogeographers super-group featuring Iain Sinclair, Peter Ackroyd, Tom Vague and me, to play a one off concert at his Artwars Project Space. The next show opening at Sexton’s space is Psycho Pomp, which runs from 8 to 31 May 2009. After leaving Sexton, my next move was a meet with Tom McCarthy, Eva Stenram and visiting US writer Jesse Ball; the conversation ping-ponged between Iceland, Finland and teaching creative writing. Later in the evening I opened an email from Richard Thomas apologising for the short notice but saying that the Gloria radio show I’d recorded for Resonance FM would be broadcast tonight (Monday 4 May) from 9.00 to 10.00pm, and repeated on Sunday 10 May, 7.30 to 8.30pm. Finally, I caught the likes of John Williams and Kodwo Eshun talking on Sukhdev Sandhu’s curious but ultimately unsatisfactory BBC Radio 3 Sunday feature The Life & Times of Michael X, before deciding that was enough counterculture for one day, and settling down with an old school kung fu movie.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

Down & dirty Stephen Dwoskin movies at the BFI

Saturday, May 2nd, 2009

Last night I was down at the BFI on the South Bank (the nearest thing you’ll find to a real rock ‘n’ roll club in London these days) to catch the first screening in a series dedicated to notorious underground/art film-maker Stephen Dwoskin, a one time contemporary of Andy Warhol. The first night of this month long season was given over to 5 early underground shorts. After an introduction by William Fowler which laid out Dwoskin’s role as a pioneer in both the New York and London underground movie scenes, the films were screened in chronological order, so Asleep (1961) came first. This shows the movements of a woman’s feet as she sleeps, it appears to have been sped-up and supposedly a whole night’s worth of movement is shown. This is a slight work, with the blanket from which the feet poke proving almost as distracting as the silent movie comedy-style piano soundtrack by Ron Geesin that was added in the late sixties – after Dwoskin had moved from New York to London.

Asleep looks like it comes from a different era to the rest of Dwoskin’s work, it resembles an early Fluxus joke piece and brought to my mind the extensive use of feet and shoes in the collages of Ray Johnson.  Nonetheless, the inclusion of Asleep in the programme was useful, since it served to remind viewers that all artists have to start somewhere, and good film-makers develop rather than making their best work first time out. Next up was Alone (1963), which shows a fully clothed girl – identified as Zelda – picking her nose, then smoking a cigarette and moving through various sexually alluring poses. This, like the first short, was a new print and the quality of the film was quite extraordinary (which was not the case with Asleep, due both to inferior lighting and the battering the source for the new print of the 1961 short had obviously suffered over the years). Once again there was a Ron Geesin soundtrack added in the late-sixties after Dwoskin had moved across the Atlantic, but this time it was pulsing industrial-style noise that worked wonderfully with the imagery it accompanied.

The third short Dirty (1965) was shot in London shortly after Dwoskin’s transatlantic relocation. Two nude girls identified as Barbara and Ann, drink booze from a bottle and then frolic on a bed. The camera freezes  at key moments and this, alongside the dirty and damaged nature of the black and white print, gives the short a dream-like quality. Dirty almost functions as pornography, but its formalism and minimal soundtrack by Gavin Bryars – again added several years after the film was shot and first screened – will frustrate the expectations of any viewer hoping for a wank fest. I found this film a real groove sensation; but it also left me wondering whether the two women it featured were sex industry professionals, aspirant actresses, or simply acquaintances  of the director having a bit of a laugh. The rhythm of Dwoskin’s films is much slower than that of commercial cinema, and after watching Alone and Dirty my head was in a different space and moving at a very different speed from when I’d arrived at the BFI’s Screen 2. Dwoskin can be very trippy, although the effect of his later films is sometimes more like the psychosis induced by too many downers.

The fourth film in the BFI’s shorts screening was Moment (1969). This is shot in colour and shows the face of a girl called Tina Fraser framed on a pillow. The dominant colour is red and this gives the film a warm feel as Tina smokes and either masturbates or simulates this act. We see her face as she works herself up to orgasm, then afterwards in complete relaxation. As a consequence this feels very much like a heterosexual version of Andy Warhol’s Blow Job (1963). Perhaps Dwoskin felt his short Asleep had provided the template for Warhol’s Sleep (1963), and was calling in the debt. Moment was the most carefully composed of the Dwoskin shorts on show last night. That said, the top right side of the screen is a kind of dead space made up of nothing but reddish pillow, with Tina Fraser’s head on the left of the frame; presumably the shot was set up in this way, with a mild imperfection, to prevent viewers from responding to it simply on the level of visual aesthetics.

The 30 minute Trixi (1970), was the longest of the films screened last night. It shows Beatrice Cordua being assaulted by Dwoskin’s camera. At first she has her clothes on, then they have been removed. As Cordua writhes through various poses, it becomes evident that the camera is metaphorically raping her. At various points we see her face and various parts of her body in extreme close-up. Like other Dwoskin women, Cordua is not particularly photogenic: her heavy eye make up is ugly, her skin looks course and uneven, the hair on her head appears to be dirty, while her bushy pubes could do with a trim. Cordua is skinny and looks like she’s not enjoying the best of health. Perhaps Dwoskin’s subjects are typical of what ordinary – as opposed to photogenic – individuals look like on camera; we’re not used to seeing averagely attractive people on film because Hollywood and the entertainment industry are so fixated with beauty. But this isn’t the only reading that might be made of the state of the women in the Dwoskin’s films screened last night; there are parallels with the drug intake – and thus also the states of consciousness – one might associate with the London underground over the period covered in the last three films: a move from mid-sixties exuberance involving alcohol, speed and acid, to the sonambulism of heroin and ultimately burn out.

The soundtrack to Trixi is simply the endless repetition of this name, and that also reflects the psychobabble one might associate with the counterculture at the dawn of the seventies. The verbal repetition of this soundtrack may hark back to a similar effect on The Cut Ups (1966) directed by Anthony Balch, but the use of a single word rather than several repeated phrases ultimately creates a pulse that resembles a heartbeat. By the end, the viewer – like the counterculture – is strung out and beaten into submission. Trixi is an unpleasant and confrontational film precisely because the camera functions as rapist, but for me it does not fit the reductive notions of ‘male gaze’ championed by the likes of Laura Mulvey and dismissed by Carol J. Clover in her book Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. You’d have to be psychotic to identify with the camera in Trixi, and the film is a formalist exercise because of the sadistic way it forces viewers to acknowledge the difference and distance between themselves and this recording device.

After the screening, I made my way up to The Strand for a bindhi at the India Club Restaurant (2nd Floor, Strand Continental Hotel, 143 Strand, London, WC2R 1JA). This establishment is very broken down and looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the 1960s, I suspect it only survives because it is right next to the Indian High Commission, and probably attracts custom from there at lunch time. I’ve always liked the non-gastro and undecorated atmosphere at the India Club, although I’ve never thought the food was that great, and it has got worse since I last visited the place a couple of years ago. From The Strand, I moved on to The Foundry in Old Street, where I’d arranged to meet Nina Power and Laura Oldfield Ford. Yet again I only succeeded in exchanging a couple of sentences with Nina before Laura dragged her off to a rave in a squat on Kingsland High Street. I didn’t want to go clubbing and since I hadn’t clocked Foundry owner Tacey Moberly, with whom I might have exchanged a friendly greeting, I decided to check out some action online instead….

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

The London Perambulator

Thursday, April 30th, 2009

I found myself back at the Whitechapel Gallery last night for the world premier of John Rogers’ film The London Perambulator. This documentary is a portrait of arsonist and ‘deep topographer’ Nick Papadimitriou. In 1975 the teenage Papadimitriou burnt down his school, and as a result got banged up in Ashford Remand Centre; a little later he found himself locked in a cell next to serial killer Dennis Nilsen at Wormwood Scrubs prison. Now in his fifties and after overcoming drug addiction, north London based Papadimitriou spends his days tramping around the liminal spaces of the city and collecting archival material connected to his walks. Some might call this psychogeography but since the term is now hackneyed, ‘deep topography’ provides a more attractive description. Papadimitriou’s fascination with suburban sprawl and sewage works might be seen as ‘eccentric’, and  The London Perambulator struck me as a cross between Iain Sinclair and Chris Petit’s Channel 4 movies such as The Falconer and works by  the artist Luke Fowler including Bogman Palmjaguar and The Way Out (see right column on link for Fowler review).

Like Luke Fowler in his art film portraits, Rogers refrains from providing a straight account of Papadimitriou’s life, instead leaving it to the viewer to piece together biographical fragments. The London Perambulator has a grunge aesthetic, including shaky camera-work and with the outdoor shots filmed from a walkers’ perspective, so there are no panoramas or aerial shots. Intercut into this are talking head sequences of Papadimitriou’s three most famous friends speaking about him and his activities. The talking heads are media personalities Russell Brand and Will Self, complimented by writer Iain Sinclair. Self and Sinclair are shot in their homes, whereas Brand appears to be reclining in the offices of his Vanity Productions company. There is the odd shot of Papadimitriou in his flat, but mostly he is filmed outside, sometimes accompanied by Will Self. There are variations in sound quality, with the audio on the Brand segments being superior to everything else. Brand’s Vanity company produced The London Perambulator, Rogers works there and obviously studio equipment is generally superior to its portable equivalents. That said, the sound is acceptable throughout the film, and the changes in its quality are simply a part of its grunge aesthetic. In the interests of clarity, I also need to declare here that there are a couple of projects I’ve been developing with Rogers and Vanity for some time; so if anyone wants to make accusations of nepotism, I should be included in them for blogging about this film!

After the screening there was a panel talk featuring Rogers, Sinclair and Self, with Goldsmiths College academic Andrea Philips as chair. Rogers and Sinclair acquitted themselves well. Unfortunately, the discussion became somewhat strained when Andrea Philips asked Self whether there was a master/slave relationship between him and Papadimitriou. Self jumped down her throat by denouncing this as a detour into the bondage parlour, whereas it seemed to me that Philips was invoking Hegel’s famous and much discussed master/slave dialectic as a reference point.  Likewise, my impression was that Philips was putting Papadimitriou forward as the more senior partner in his obviously close  and collaborative relationship with Self, but the media personality angrily responded that Papadimitriou was in no way beholden to him. It is difficult to imagine anyone who had just seen Rogers’ film coming away with that impression, since after viewing it only a reversal of Self’s perspective would seem in the least bit feasible.

Philips appeared shaken by Self’s odd reply to her question, which might explain why having opened the session by talking up her own academic expertise in the areas of psychogeography and urban walking, she closed by asking why these activities appealed only to men. Sinclair soon put her straight by explaining that most of those wanting to do walks with him were women, and of course Philips’ own academic research also served to disprove her final assertion. Afterwards a good number of those present headed up to the Whitechapel bar, where Self’s claim that Papadimitriou was a contemporary Rimbaud came in for some heavy criticism. On the basis of the Rogers’ film, it would appear that Papadimitriou is principally concerned with observation, whereas Rimbaud’s focus was transformation; such differences clearly render Self’s claim untenable.

The London Perambulator was screened as a part of the East London Film Festival (23-30 April 2009, various locations).

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

The great Whitechapel Gallery expansion disaster of 2009

Sunday, April 26th, 2009

The Whitechapel Gallery re-opened this month and what a disaster its expansion turns out to be. The new spaces, created from the acquisition of the old library next door, are poky. The circulation is appalling, I kept having to stop because other people were in my way, and no doubt they felt I was in their way too. There are endless heavy doors throughout, presumably to reduce fire risks but these ugly items induce feelings of claustrophobia. There are also a lot of stairs and level changes which add to the cluttered and alienating atmosphere. On the plus side, the light is good throughout the expanded gallery, but the overall effect is still extremely depressing. Obviously any conversion is going to be a compromise, and so losses and gains must be weighed up, but here as soon as you go inside you can see the losses heavily outweigh the gains. The innate imbalance between these two knocked together buildings is badly compounded by the unsympathetic programming and piss-poor curation that blights the re-launch of the gallery.

Having doubled its exhibition space, you’d have thought the Whitechapel could put on a decent Isa Genzken retrospective. But rather than utilising the new spaces, Genzken’s Open, Sesame! is crammed into the old galleries. Worse still, false – and I trust temporary – walls have been added, resulting in the old galleries feeling nearly as poky and cramped as the new spaces. Far too much work by Genzken has been rammed into the space allocated to it and as a consequence, it looks like absolute shit. Given room to breath, some of Genzken’s output strikes me as at least potentially interesting, but you can’t judge it properly when it has been shoe-horned into less than half the space it requires.

The new space the Genzken show might have been spread across has been allocated to less worthwhile projects, such as an incoherent display called Passports: Great Early Buys from the British Council Collection. The earliest work in Passports dates from 1914 and the most recent from 2001, as a result it comes across as a completely random exercise in cod curation. That said, the selector Michael Graig-Martin clearly has an agenda since he not only includes his own work but also that of the more famous alumni from his period of tenure at Goldsmiths College in New Cross.

Craig-Martin strikes me as akin to Narcissus if he’d been condemned to using only mud baths, rather than washing in clear water, i.e. an extremely dull reflection of more general art world nepotism. Goshka Macuga’s Bloomberg Commission in another of the new galleries is considerably more irritating than Craig-Martin’s flop precisely because what could have been an exciting and informative piece of local history suffers at the hands of an artist too lazy to undertake proper research. The subject of Macuga’s installation is the display of Picasso’s Guernica at the Whitechapel Gallery in 1939. A full-scale tapestry copy of Picasso’s painting depicting the most infamous fascist atrocity of the Spanish Civil War thus becomes the centre-piece of Macuga’s botched attempt at local history. For me the tapestry by Jacqueline de la Baume Durrbach is less interesting than many of the documents on show in the room. The history of Picasso’s painting and the politics surrounding its display are fascinating. Unfortunately, Macuga has made no attempt to properly order the few items she’s gathered in relation to this, the overwhelming bulk of which appear to come from either the Whitechapel archives or the anarchist bookshop located next to the gallery.

Given the complexity of the material Macuga has failed to engage with, careful selection and proper interpretative texts were required if she’d wanted to produce a successful installation. That said, in order for useful interpretation to take place, the items on display first require proper identification. When I went there was, for example, a photograph of a protest in London labelled as dating from 1938. A cursory glance at this shows the demonstrators to be wearing flares and other fashions associated with the early to mid-1970s. They are holding banners to protest against Franco’s treatment of the Carabanchel 10. Carabanchel Prison was built between 1940 and 1944 by political prisoners and it became perhaps the most notorious symbol of Franco’s repressive fascist regime in Spain. The prison wasn’t even operational until 6 years after the incorrect date Macuga provides for this photograph. A quick web search led me to the Steve Nelson papers held by New York University Library, where dated Carabanchel 10 items are listed as being from the 1973-75 period. However, you don’t need to do a web search to see that the dating of the photograph is wrong, this is obvious just by looking at it.

Likewise, a series of 10 pre-war pamphlets on producing agit-prop art materials are displayed, numbered consecutively 1 to 9, and then 11. There is no explanation as to why pamphlet 10 was not displayed, nor any indication as to whether 11 was the last in the series or not. There was also a display of contemporary agit-prop material leading up to the anti-G20 protests in London earlier this month, all provided by Freedom Bookshop. Anarchists only make up a tiny minority of anti-capitalist protesters but if you go to the anarchist bookshop sited next door to the Whitechapel Gallery and ask them for anti-G20 material they aren’t going to provide a representational sample. So what we get is solely anarchist propaganda against G20. In this way, Macuga manages to completely misrepresent anti-capitalist activity as being essentially anarchist in character. I would imagine her sponsor Bloomberg are very happy that the broad movement opposed to the financial system from which it profits is thereby reduced in this particular representation to one of its more marginal factions.

Macuga has a reputation as a wily networker, and she appears to me typical of many contemporary career artists who treat their CV and professional contacts as far more significant than the slight works they produce to facilitate their occupation of elevated positions within the cultural world. Likewise, Whitechapel director Iwona Blazwick has more of a reputation as a networker and deal clincher than an exhibition maker.  That is not to say Blazwick has not curated numerous shows, but on the whole they have not been particularly memorable. She is, however, highly regarded as a university level teacher specialising in areas such as art advocacy, that is explaining and metaphorically selling contemporary visual culture to those unfamiliar with it. What Blazwick has done with the Whitechapel expansion reflects more general trends in culture, and is very much in keeping with the activities of her predecessor at this institution Nicholas Serota, who in more recent years has overseen the re-branding of The Tate. Therefore, it isn’t surprising that walking around the expanded Whitechapel left me with the impression that Blazwick had paid far more attention to sponsorship and revenue streams than aesthetic issues. As director that’s her job, and it keeps her in a job, that’s the way commodified culture works.

Given the many important shows the Whitechapel has hosted in the past – including not only Picasso’s Guernica but also This Is Tomorrow in 1956 and the first really seminal post-war exhibition of photography in London, Ida Kar’s 1960 solo show – it is pitiful to see the gallery reduced to such a sorry state after its thirteen million pound refurbishment. But then capitalism and capitalist culture can only go backwards, they have no where else to go.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!