Art Now: The Way In Which It Landed

A hanging wooden plank acts as a visual barrier to the room, hanging at about eye level, as pictured. Untitled (2007) by Lucy Clout is one among many works chosen by Ryan Gander, guest curator for the Art Now exhibition, from a randomly selected storage screen. Toying with the playfullness of random occurrence, works are drawn up without a coherent selection process, and the result is a collection of paintings, photographs, installtions and illustrations that bear no logical connection to one and other.

Its quite refreshing walking through a room where each work is completely different from the one before. There is no concentration on a core theme or idea, and so the viewer is forced to make their own of each individual piece. The sculpture in the room did nothing for me, one even made me laugh. This reminded me of the Salon d'Automne 1905 exhibition where the Fauve artists were originally grouped together, their paintings so radical in their use of colour, and, at the time, almost offensive, that people walked out of the exhibition laughing. One viewer even attempted to slash the canvas of Matisse's Woman in a Hat (1905) out of sheer disgust. Im not saying i felt like lashing out at the sculpture, one of which a seemingly careless composition of potatoes sitting among a few rolls of tape, but i did question how much time and effort the artist put into the work. I may not be 'ready' for this type of sculpture, but my own taste prefers art with some obvious signs of thought and time expended into it, and some of the works seemed so lazy and thoughtless. It didnt help that i had no explanation of the ideas of the artist, and i find it is true that the more i read or learn about a piece, artist or even movement, the more i tend to like it.

It is an interesting concept, at which point should you accept something as art or reject it as thoughtless, careless nonsense. People these days find it hard to accept works from high profile artist like Cy Twombly and Duchamp. The phrases i hear go along the lines of - "Thats rubbish, anyone could do that." I think, well, if you don't know anything about the ideas behind works such as Duchamp's Fountain (1920), and you take the piece by face value, then yes, it is just a signed urinal, but the great thing about art is that its not just about aesthetics. That signed urinal is arguably the most influential piece of art of the 20th century, almost purely due to the ideas behind it. Furthermore, why is something like a urinal rubbsih art? Decontextualised from its bathroom environment, it is actually a fairly beautiful sculpture. I sort of draw the line at a few potatoes and rolls of tape, however my mind is open and hopefully soon, with more knowledge about this type of work, ill be able to accept that too.

Other pieces in the room drew my interest alot further. There were some intense, highly detailed and complicated graphic illustration alongside some rather child like yet charming ink drawing. I was drawn to a paint splattered artist's palette, attached to a wooden board, encased in a glass-fronted white casing. It was an enticing explosion of tiny dots of colour, i found myself in front of it for quite some time, leading me to notice that each little dot of paint had actually been applied with a brush. This kind of intimate, timetaking process is one that i love discovering, and it is only through careful obervation that i did. I think the exhibition is over now but i thought i should record my ideas from it.

Blockbuster: luminous Rothko

Visited the Tate Modern with a friend to see the Rothko exhibition there, i felt a kind of moral obligation as a practicing artist and art historian and was surprised with how i found it. To be honest i didnt really know what to think, i had seen the posters but didnt really know what to expect from the paintings in person. Stepping into room three, i was slowly filled with a warmth, the expansive room, with over 10 very large paintings really calmed me and i couldnt help but smile. There was a sort of vibrating hum of energy that i couldnt put my finger on. It must have been contagious because my friend felt it too, every new painting we walked around to see (bar some of the more lurid, brighter orange ones) we both experienced this similar sense of deep satisfaction. It was possibly something to do with the scale, as well as the enticing, feathery edges to the geometric shapes that allowed us to just stand happily for lengthy periods of time. Something in the far corner of the room drew my attention. Above is pictured "Red on Maroon" of 1959, a distinctly luminous surface lures you in from a distance, and the fleeting layering of paint in that simple and pure rectangular shape keep you rooted in front of it.

I felt some sort of emotional connection with most of the works, the more i looked, the more i noticed (quite literally) and the more i felt myself become attached to individual pieces. I came back with 3 postcards which on inspection have nothing of the same effect. It really is one of those things you have to go and see.

Screaming Clergy, Francis Bacon

It has been said about Bacon that all the emotion and drama is shown through the faces of his portraits. On visiting the exhibition now on at the Tate, i turned into room three to be faced with this man, Pope Innocent X, who seems to be sitting, eminating an opressed scream from his gaping mouth. Certainly, the face does initiate an intense psychological connection between the viewer and the subject - who could escape those frankly terrifying features? - and yet i cant help to notice more subtle elements to the work that contribute to the atmosphere of complete exasperation and helplessness of this poor, troubled man.

He seems to be gripping the arms of his seat, as a child grips to his mother out of sheer fright on, say, its first day of school. The scintillating brushstrokes that make up his fingers curl tensely round the wood, and the bolt upright seating position indicates yet further emotional distress. Furthermore, Bacon entraps the figure within a hexagon of lines, a frame that serves the purpose of suggesting the complete, entrapping and overwhelming sense of responsibility that we know Pope Innocent X felt for his job.

I would be reluctant to strongly recommend the exhibition, i personally do like a large portion of the work but came out of the exhibition feeling a slightly humbled and untalkative. Maybe it was something to do with the grotesque abstraction of hanging meat in the crucifixion room or the general dark feeling a lot of the paintings had about them, but i left with no contentment, only satisfaction on having witnessed a fair representation of the artwork of a (as i see it) very disturbed painter.