Mauritshuis, Den Haag (No 1 in a series)

This will be the first in a series of blogs specific to art, as I go to galleries, I will pick but one work from within it and write about it, it will be based on what interests me and I will explain why. I’m conscious this is all rather pretentious, so feel free to ignore :)

Part 1 : Mauritshuis, The Hague.

We visited some old friends in Holland last week, was lovely to see Chris, Charlina, their twins Nils and Sophia and their one year old Elano. On the Saturday we visited the Mauritshuis in the Hague, a compact little gallery full of Dutch/Flemish masters.

It is here the famous “Girl with a Pearl Earring” by Vermeer is housed. It is a beautiful painting and it was hard to get a good look as people were congregated round it. But this is not the subject of my blog.

The work of art I’ve chosen is “Christ descending into limbo” by Jan Brueghel the Elder with Hans Rottenhammer (1597). It’s only a small piece of work but it contains a lot of power. Seeing as I seem to be be in morbid blog mode at the moment, this painting fascinates me.

In the bottom left of this painting a group of people are desperate to be saved by a seemingly untouchable radiant Jesus, all around him however is chaos, men and women tortured by various monstrous beasts, people fall from great heights, a little horned imp burns a brazier as leering creatures abduct and drag off screaming women, furnaces rage and buildings burn as tiny figures run into the water to drown, soldiers with stunted animal bodies in arms and armour terrorise the naked people, it’s hideous. Religious art, especially scenes of hell (or in this case limbo), even for one with a secular viewpoint is hard hitting. I always imagine how terrifying this would be for someone in the 16th century. Would it have made them turn their back against “sin”? Probably not, but it would have sure scared the crap out of them. I like to think that the artists had fun painting this, trying to make their beasts and monsters as scary as possible, testing it out on their students and friends for its shock value.

From personal experience, drawing beasts is fun, cathartic and mirth inducing. For example, here is my drawing of Booglog (I claim credit for many beasts, but not this one I’m afraid, Paul created this one). His catchphrase is “Throw them in Fire!” so he would have been perfectly placed in this painting. Utterly in keeping with the standard of art too.

Hmm… an idea, in the spirit of the Chapman Brothers (see this blog) I’ve added Booglog into the painting. I think it works.

Well, this blog started off vaguely serious, but it couldn’t last.

Anyway, I don’t know much about the artist (as usual) but a glance at available online resources shows the whole family (father and brother, children) were all accomplished artists. It seems this Brueghel wasn’t known for his hellish paintings but was more famous for flowers and more genteel religious scenes. His father and brother worked more in that space however.

On Rottenhammer (great name) I know even less (surprise!), other than when they worked together, he did the figures and Brueghel did the landscapes. Anyway, it’s an interesting collaboration. That’s it!

Arsenal’s Curse

I am concerned by the bad luck that has befallen Arsenal, since the Carling Cup Final, we’ve been in freefall, relegation form, as aptly shown here.

So today I will cast a spell to remove the bad luck. Is it conceivable that our players have brain freezes at such critical moments or are they possessed by some malevolent force? ;) Are officials influenced by a sinister power, suggesting they ignore offsides or blatant fouls? And look at Wenger, every week he seems to wither on the vine, like he is a puppet of some monstrous entity from another plane? He reminds me of King Theoden in Lord of the Rings, all covered in dust and talking bollocks.

Someone has hexed us. There is no doubt. I'm not sure what I will do as I am not an adept in sorcery, but I will invoke the spirit of Sir Henry Norris, possibly the most Machiavellian chairman we've ever had. He'll know what we should do.

<<PAUSE>>

Ok, I’ve had a vision and I was instructed to incant with my hands over the Autobiographies of Tony Adams, Bob Wilson, Liam Brady, Eddie Hapgood, Joe Mercer and Frank McLintock (I also have Perry Groves’ autobio, but wasn’t asked to touch his tome – sorry El Pel). I am also to burn my Carling Cup Final Ticket as this is when the curse brought new heights of pain upon us.  Here is the offending artefact, bringing plague upon our football house.

Here is the ticket, reduced to Ashes. Burn Burn Burn! The hex is reversed, pain in triplicate will be thrust upon the football teams of the invoker.

Chin up Gooners. We’re going to win a trophy this season. Expect a long unbeaten run. I know it. Henry Norris told me.

The Chapman Brothers, Jake or Dinos, White Cube

I don’t know much about the Chapman Brothers, Jake and Dinos, in fact, much as a lot of my blogs are about art, I don’t know much about art at all, beyond some rudimentary knowledge and the occasional blag. So, you are very welcome to join me on this journey of discovery as I apply my own (no doubt hideous) interpretations of peoples work as I explore this wonderful subject over the coming blogs.
What I lack in knowledge, I will make up for in enthusiasm however. When I win the lottery, I’ll sign up to an art history degree and be an earthy grounded gor-blimey mature student, doing some Dick Van Dyke tap dancing shit, whilst my posh course mates steer well clear.
So anyway, the Chapman Brothers. I knew the following prior to attending the exhibition-
1) They are of Cypriot heritage (like me)
2) Therefore they are bald (I checked, they are)
3) They are controversial, I vaguely remember their plastic dolls fused together, quite horrific images, which appealed to me at the time, but I probably went back to playing Football Manager and didn’t go to see the exhibition
4) Something about a scary fairy tale based (and let’s be clear – proper fairy tales are horrific and bloody) childrens colouring in book (subsequently found out it’s a dot to dot, but the colouring in book may also exist)
5) That’s it
So, on a whim I decided to visit the White Cube gallery today, as well as the National Portrait Gallery, which will be the subject of another blog.
There are two White Cube galleries, one in Mason’s Yard near Green Park in London and one in Hoxton. I only visited the Mason’s Yard one today, but I’ve included pics from both, mainly drawn from the Guardian, but also from another website, I would credit, but I can’t find the link now, all I will say is, they aren’t mine and if this blog ever extends beyond seven followers, then I apologise to whoever took the photo!
The “shock factor” from the exhibition involved Nazi imagery, but it was pushed to extreme boundaries of ridiculousness, it made the imagery farcical. Not sure if that was the point, the shock, combined with a vague slapstick amusement, but that’s what I got from this exhibition.
Yes. The Nazi Zombies and I use this term lazily as equally they might be hideously burnt, disfigured or mutated Nazis, are creepy, the first thing that greets you as you walk down the stairs into the basement gallery is one of them staring at you, in his Hugo Boss Waffen SS uniform. Really, it did shock me. I stopped dead in my tracks. Bang! It was instantly unsettling. An art smack down. This was the only photo I took, as photos aren’t allowed.

However, the poses they are in (two are in the process of having sex), the insignia (a smiley face armband instead of a swastika) and the scenarios they are put in (one nazi is sitting under a stuffed pigeon which occasionally “shits” on him) balances things out.
The following video summarises things nicely -

Dinos - “If they say it’s wonderfully offensive then that’s good, if they say it’s horribly offensive then..” (shrug)
Jake - “We’re not bothered by what people think… apart from our mother” (both laugh)
I also like they are belligerent socialists at heart, who want art to be available to all students, whatever their background, not just for the privileged few.
All pics courtesy of the guardian I think, if not…my bad!

Yes, they are getting it on in this pic (tee hee)

Round the corner from the Nazi’s, in a darkened room, is another man sized figure of the same material/ilk, this time in a big KKK hood. He was quite scary. In front of him was a painting, a hellish image of the crucifixion, Christ and the two criminals on their crosses with a crowd under them. Initially I thought, this looks like a Brueghel or Bosch, as the figures were all vaguely distorted or utterly warped in animalistic forms. But I though, oh, it can’t be, Christ himself has tentacles coming out of his face for instance, someone was trying to climb out of a horses bum and someone else was smoking a fag in the painting! The animalistic forms of the people was not a surprise for those two artists, but they’d have never messed with the image of Jesus. I assumed one of the Chapman brothers had painted an original in that style.
As you have to lean forward to examine it as the light is poor, the KKK man is looming behind you. What I didn’t realise is he had a massive hardon bulging his trousers outward, so whilst you are leaning over to look at the painting, you are faintly aware of a large cock hovering by your butt. It amused me greatly when I finally saw it! So again, unsettling imagery / comedy. It’s shocking but great too. His “bulge” is not visible in this photo but it gives you an idea of the space you have to squeeze into and lean over to look at the painting.

Anyway, a bit of research and I found out that Brueghel, or rather one of his followers *had* painted it and one of the brothers had then proceeded to add to it. Some would say this is defacement, but considering this has now sold for £750k (KKK hardon man thrown in) compared to the €220k they originally paid for it… it challenges perceptions and the value of art. Full story as relayed by the Telegraph here (and remember it is the Telegraph so it does have a sober disappointment running through the article and the comments are just typical Telegraph…..)
What I missed had I gone to the Hoxton White Cube, the other half of the exhibition.
You are fucking kidding me!

No, there’s more of them.

And finally.

It finishes tomorrow, next time I’ll pay more attention and definitely go to a Chapman brothers exhibition early!

British Masters

Last year I was fortunate enough to attend Lucian Freud’s last major exhibition at the Pompidou in Paris. There’s a blog about it in the depths of my timeline (here).
So it was with some sadness that I heard he died. He was our greatest living artist in my honest opinion.
The enthusiastic art historian Dr James Fox recently hosted a programme on the BBC called British Masters, he spoke with authority but not any pomposity about the period of British Art History 1910 – 1975. Assuming we don’t rip each other to shreds by then, he believes that in centuries to come, this will be seen as a defining period in Art, on a par with the renaissance, so his passionate delivery was a breath of fresh air.
Freud was old school, he knew, fraternised or fell out with most of his artistic peer group as well as his family. Sixty years ago he was getting drunk with Francis Bacon in some Soho dive. Within the last few years he was dancing with Kate Moss in some west London club. Even shortly before his death he was, on most nights, dining with one of his daughters in the Wolesley. As an aside the waiters laid his regular table in his honour with a black tablecloth and single candle when they heard he died – however some diners felt he had a scowl that could curdle milk should you annoy him. Next day, Dale Winton had his table, it is alleged…
Although intensely private, turning down interviews, writing shitty letters (which became so popular he stopped sending them as journalists would frame them) he led an active social life. On his own terms. It seems duty was not high on his agenda which meant he didn’t attend his mothers funeral, but that didn’t stop him being generous to those he loved. And it sounds like he loved a lot, with thirteen official children, and probably up to forty in total.
He worked almost to his dying day, a realist painter, his art recognisable from the flesh. He mostly painted from, and in, his studio. Apart from some very early works, he rarely painted an outside scene. Which is why this particular painting interested me. It’s from his garden, I can’t find the reference, so I may have imagined it, but I believe this is where he buried one of his dogs. It seems intensely sad to me. A pet’s love is unconditional, the tragic (and extremely simple) romantic in me thinks this some expression of love for a creature that has simple needs, he couldn’t handle or be bothered with the complexity of human relationships perhaps, breaking his habit of only painting indoors for old Fido or whatever his pooches name was. This is a photo of the work, by David Dawson his long time assistant.

It’s called “Painters Garden with Eli, 2006” – Eli being his last dog.
Tate Britain is currently exhibiting a few items from their Freud collection. This one particularly captivated me, it is of Harry Redknapp Francis Bacon, an unfinished piece. But getting right up close to it, you can see the incredible brushwork, Freud truly was a master.

As well as this Freud work, there is a small gallery dedicated to an artist I’d never heard of before John Craxton who died in 2009. His early work was very fluid and technically brilliant, his later work being more free. “Neo Romantic” was the term the Tate used, citing William Blake as an influence.
I really liked his work, especially the early stuff. Such as :
Hare in Larder 1943

Llanthony Abbey 1942

Now Craxton, he roomed with Freud when they were studying. Craxton showed the greater promise as a youth, but Freud kicked on, whearas Craxton, although brilliant, lived the good life in Crete where he settled. Freud came to visit him and they would, as was the tradition in their friendship, exchange each others sketches and paintings at the end of the visit.
Now, Freud gambled, a lot. He generated huge debts. So much so that he sold Craxton’s painting to pay off some of these debts, with a “you don’t mind do you?” to Craxton, who was probably rightly slighted.
In later years, when the money wasn’t coming in for Craxton, he himself decided to sell a few Freud’s, they were worth a lot more money then, to raise some cash. After all, his old friend sold some of his paintings didn’t he?
The agent tasked with selling them, took the original works to Lucian Freud to verify their authenticity. Freud was not best pleased. But he verified them all right. On each, he wrote :
“John Craxton is a cunt. Lucian Freud”
RIP Lucian Freud and John Craxton.

Japanese Post Rock

Been a while, but thought I’d post a catch up blog. Back in June I saw two Japanese post rock bands live. The first, Mono, I’ve liked for a while, so it was great to hear they were performing in London.
My favourite album of theirs, One Step More and You Die, has a great track called Com(?) on it. Sixteen minutes of heaven and hell, mostly hell. Must be played ear bleedingly loud.  Listen Here :)
So me and the Bossman went to Koko in Camden, interestingly, he hadn’t really got into their studio stuff so wasn’t sure what to expect, whearas for me I was expecting a torrent of white noise to lift the whole studio sound.
Bizarrely, I was disappointed and he was lifted. I wanted them to be louder, more engaging, more animated. I wanted more lank haired Japanese “Grudge” style hairstyles flying in a blur as they went mental on their instruments, but they were too busy playing tunes, no edgy improvisation, no spraying the crowd with silver paint, no instrument smashing. They were note perfect, cannot take that away from them, but they seemed too clean and clinical. Whearas for Rob, he switched on to their incredible depth of sound. It was probably me though as I had the hump from work.
Here is a short clip (as my photos turned out rubbish)

A few days later I saw Boris at ULU, as oft stated one of my favourite venues. The support act were Russian Circles who played at the Metal end of the Post Rock spectrum. They were mental. Loved them. Although my mate Sal felt they were guff, so he wandered back from the aural bombardment.
Here they are, you cannot see their heads because they didn’t have any.

Then onto Boris. Again, at the harder end of the post rock spectrum. They aren’t quiet-quiet-loud, they are more Loud-Loud-Loud-Quiet if I am to label them. They did deliver the animated crazy Japanese madness I so enjoy. Great band! In a small venue too. And the drummer had a gong, which is messed up.

Loving this pic, they look like cast members of a particularly gruesome japanese horror movie. Especially the drummer who is floating in mid air (but more likely needing to stand up to fart)

She was tiny, but could fret wank as well as any Japanese male guitarist.

Raaarrrrr smash the gong!

Ball and Chain

Went to the British Library tonight, a talk on Utopia under the banner of the Science Fiction exhibition “Out of this World”, quite interesting although very cerebral and philosophical. Is the concept of Utopia an elitist conceit, concieved under the pretence of tyranny or is the utopian ideal something we should collectively strive to, for our sustainable future? I don’t know the answers to these questions as everyone was cleverer than me. All I know is that I like Prawn Cocktail crisps. Quite a lot.
Iain M Banks was one of the panel members (I want his middle initial to stand for “Middle-initial” but sadly it doesn’t), a jovial, super witty writer who has spanned both mainstream and science fiction quite adeptly. The “M” initial only appears on his SF books by the way.
Was a good talk, was great to see Dave too.
But I’m writing this blog about something that happened before the talk and appealed to my pathetic sense of humour.
In the British Library foyer, is this chair. It is made of metal. It is heavy.
 
The ball and chain attached to it is also made of metal. And yes. It is heavy.
So when the random dad said to his young son “Look, a football!” and proceeded to hoof it, I cracked up when he crumpled to the floor and did that “I’m in agony, but I’m going to pretend I’m ok” walk out of the building. What a douche. He did move the ball though, it sort of wibbled a bit, unlike his foot which sort of splintered.
I always loved Tom and Jerry violence, should never have gone off air!

An Overheard Conversation

Last summer I attended a creative writing course. One particular task was to eavesdrop on other people's conversations and relay them in less than 500 words, I’m quite fond of the result. As most people are not the Dalai Lama, Muhammad Ali, Stephen Fry or Germaine Greer, most conversations are intrinsically boring, involving "what's for dinner tonight" - "dunno, soup?" etc. But I was lucky to catch the first line of a conversation when I visited the Saatchi Gallery last year. I plucked it, memorised it, scribbled it in my moleskine and the rest I embellished.

I'm fond of it as it is nothing like anything I usually write (someone usually dies or gets wanked off). I'm very fond of both characters and I feel I can't continue this story in case one or both of them die or get wanked off. So a 500 word limit was perfect! Enjoy

Mel

---------

“My legal name is Frances of course, but everyone calls me Fanny! It leads to much amusement with my bank manager!” the frail looking old lady announced with a snorting laugh.

She had one of those voices, which travelled, filled the room, clear as crystal, plummy, like an old school BBC radio presenter.

It belied her tiny body, with those sparrows’ ankles poking out the bottom of her long skirt, accentuating her patent leather red shoes.

She wore a blue fascinator, complete with veil. Her blue frilly blouse was buttoned up to her chin. She looked like an ice cream cone, with her head a precariously balanced scoop of vanilla, ready to slip to the floor and splat at the slightest touch.

Edward blinked and squinted through his jam jar glasses, struggling to focus. “Oh” he managed, before Fanny resumed her onslaught.

“I see from your name tag that you are Edward, jolly good. A proud, solid name.” she boomed whilst poking him on the name tag with her bony finger. He rocked back on his heels with each poke.

“And why are you here today Edward? Are you an artist too? Or an interested observer? Perhaps an art collector? You look the discerning type. Which part of the exhibition did you enjoy most? Any of my pieces catch your eye?”

Edward tugged the bottom of his jumper, straightening it out. He folded his arms, looked around and twiddled his thumbs as he struggled for an answer.

“Perhaps the depiction of Apollo?” she offered. “What of Thor? Anubis? Herakles?” She pounded him with the names of mythological gods, each one thumping him on the top of the head like a tent peg. Each time his knees buckled further into the ground.

“The last one” he muttered.

“Oh Herakles! Wonderful! Edward, you are so kind to say such things” she beamed, genuinely touched, fluttering her eyelashes from under the lace of her veil. Edward focused through his glasses and noticed the abundance of rouge on her cheeks, but also the sharp handsome bone structure, high cheekbones. She was probably a stunner in her youth, he mused.

Behind him, Edward heard a couple of youths sniggering.

“Look at that dog’s dinner going on and on”

“State of her!” replied the other voice with a guffaw.

Edward felt a pang of sadness for this eccentric relic of a bygone era. “Are you ok Edward?” enquired Fanny, gently touching his arm, her voice no longer booming but subdued and steeped in maternal care.

“Oh yes” he said. He unfolded his arms and offered one to Fanny. “Please show me, tell me more about your work. It’s beautiful” he smiled.

Fanny put her hand to her mouth with a tiny giggle, took his arm and leant on him for support. She blushed as they walked steadily back into the exhibition room.