my life as a artist
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he art
Sunday 28th September 2008 10:02 PM
One night last week, after an alert phone-call alert from my Mum, I watched a channel 4 programme called 'The curse of the Mona Lisa', a lamentation on the shallow commercialism of art, presented by Robert Hughes, a justifiably and splendidly grumpy old man. As an embodiment of all that is vacuous and venal in the art-world, Demon Hurts was a perfect specimen for dissection, and as I enjoyed the viscera, it occurred to me that the art of Demon Hurts is truly tawdry.
The founding saint of Ely cathedral was St. Etheldreda, popularly known as St Audrey, (with three sisters called Ethelburga, Withburga and Sexburga, (which sounds like the complete nutrition for a Sun-reader) and a dad called Anna, she was probably delighted), and the shoddiness of the cheap lace tat and goods, for sale on her feast day, became known as 'St Audrey', or 'tawdry.
I found the double parentheses in the previous paragraph quite tortuous, and this morning the Corinthians lost 8-0 to the Shoulder of Mutton, so I'm going to accept the horizontal. More soon. Night!
Posted 10:02 PM | 6 Comments | Permalink
small change
Thursday 18th September 2008 1:40 AM
The enormous black hole created during last week's trial run of the Large Ron-once-had-one Collider doesn't seem to have done too much damage, as far as I can tell. Myself, my Mum, fabulous Betty,Greg-with-the-power-bob, who-used-to-work-at-the-post-office, and others too imaginary to mention, have always believed that when matter is swallowed up by a black hole, rather than being annihilated, it goes into another dimension, and it does it so quickly and smoothly, that except for a slight tingle around the pineal gland and a few wobbly ornaments, most people don't even notice.
Since the transition, last Wednesday, I've been surveying the universe, and all her mirroraculous ways, and despite constant scrutiny and a perpetual, punishing regime of meditation and self-analysis, the only obvious difference I can see between this dimension and the last one, is that England are much better at playing football.
In all other respects, things carry on as normal, only more so. Huddersfield Town continue to lose, and the sagging, knitted swimwear of capitalism unravels even more, now revealing shocking nipples of truth. Despite the near-nakedness of our page three stunna emperor, Man City pay Robinho 160 grand for a deflected goal and two misplaced passes, while Demon Hurts successfully sells his latest collection, 'Bag o' Shite', at Sotheby's, for over £100,000,000. That's a lot of nothings, and someone's been messing with the decimal point.
Posted 1:40 AM | 7 Comments | Permalink
lots of van dycks but none by dick
Monday 8th September 2008 11:27 PM
On Friday night I attended the private view of the 'Artexny' exhibition at Castle Howard, in aid of York against Cancer (I think Cancer won 3-1). 'Artexny', in this case, is not the art of painting textured ceilings, but is an ungainly, hybrid lump of a word meaning 'art exhibition North Yorkshire'. It was a fizzy tie and black champagne do, involving thir(s)ty artists and a couple of hundred we-are-worthies, who were ferried from the car-park to the tradesman's entrance in a big, tractor-drawn toy train, made of hardboard and bunting, decorated with domed silhouettes in pleasant shades of cream and wedgwood blue. I'm glad to say that the train ride, though slow and vaguely humiliating, was completely free of charge.
Castle Hogwart, when it was built, was the largest private dwelling in England, and is one of the finest you-call-that-living examples of eighteenth century bling. Every room is crammed to bursting with busts, urns and cherubs, the walls filled, frame to frame, with old masters of Venetian landscapes and three-chinned kings. It was like having seven Sunday dinners in a row.
However, in a dark corridor, on the long labyrinthine journey to the toilet, I came across a fourth century Greek bust of Dionysius, huge, stoned and dreadlocked. Earthy, exuberant, sensuous and inscrutable, his eyes were rolled heavenwards, either in apprehension of the ecstatic vision, or in Frankie Howard-style dismay at all the surrounding Apollonic knick-knacks of polite society.
In my 'you-can't-tell-it's-from-a-car-boot-sale but-I'll-probably-tell-you-anyway' cream linen suit, amongst the penguin tide of black suits, I felt singular and creamy. The finger buffet consisted of weird canapés and those miniature sandwiches with the crusts cut off, so one doesn't have to do much chewing. The champagne ran out too early, and they didn't have any Guinness, so I larged it on elderflower cordial.
Seeing two women looking at and discussing my work, I informed them that I was the artist. One of them looked at me in surprise, and said, 'Oh, I thought they were done by a child.'
'Thanks' I said, expertly flicking a stilton mousse canapé into her handbag, 'Picasso said he was in his eighties before he learnt to paint like a child'.
Posted 11:27 PM | 8 Comments | Permalink
