Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema: Under the Roof of Blue Ionian Weather

A requirement of all modern art seems to be that is stark, bleak and ugly. Enjoy this classic by way of contrast.

JMW Turner: Pope’s Villa at Twickenham

A visit to the Serpentine

This evening after work I headed along to the Serpentine gallery in Hyde Park to take a look at an exhibition by American “artist” Richard Prince, whom I later discovered has made his entire career largely out of appropriating the work of others.

Private views at the Serpentine are very different from those at other galleries. This is immediately apparent by the presence of a large number of security guards who look as if they are protecting the President of the United States. They’re big, meaty men in their forties with curl wired earpieces and they scan their area as if… well, as if it’s something far more than it actually is.

Another difference is the visitors, who were in general far younger than I am used to, and who seemed to treat the event as more of a fashion show than an art exhibition (indeed, perhaps it was). Women wore over-sized sunglasses and one who looked like Keira Knightly spoke in a private school drawl, but punctuated with profanity, as is so common now (in both senses of the word). This particular girl, I noticed, was accompanied by a man who looked like he had never done a day’s work in his life. Of course I don’t know for sure, but I dare say he simply pushed money around or was a middleman of some kind – work would more than likely be beneath him, and he would be admired by his peers, and of course by the girl, for this fact. The women? I would guess that many of them were “in marketing” (or PR, of course). I have been meaning to point out that so many London females seem to work in marketing now (if you can really call it work) that it is a wonder there are enough things to market, or any of them left to do anything else.

There are a lot of staff at the Serpentine Gallery (which is in a beautiful park, by the way). Far too many, as far as I could tell. A lot of them seemed to know the guests, and there were a lot of “mwah!”s and “daahling!”s and all the other pretentious nonsense one associates with gatherings of people who have nothing better – nothing deeper – to say.

But what of the art? It had the usual multi-thousand pound, “life-saving hospital equipment value” price tags, so surely it had some merit? Hm, I think we know not to expect that by now. In fact, I am beginning to feel as if I am visiting the scene of a crime every time I go to these galleries now. A moral crime. The artwork here consisted of the usual enlarged photos, otherwise no more remarkable than one would find on any stock photo site, some collages involving the mandatory ugly genital shots (yawn), some muddled up words printed on very large canvases, and then some casts of car bonnets that looked pretty much as they would in your average car repair garage. This was “art”. This was what we are supposed to consider our modern day equivalent of Turner and Constable.

So what was going on? Was it that my first class degree in Philosophy and generally reflective nature were just not enough to enable me to see the deep messages in this work? Or was it just that the work was, in fact, utterly mediocre? I know what Brian Sewell would have thought (see a great video of the inimitable Sewell putting a “modern artist” straight on the otherwise trash that is Big Brother). British MP Kim Howells admirably spoke the truth too, when he wrote:

“If this is the best British artists can produce then British art is lost. It is cold mechanical, conceptual bullshit. Kim Howells. p.s. The attempts at conceptualisation are particularly pathetic and symptomatic of a lack of conviction.”

These people point, unashamedly, to the elephant in the room. Incidentally, I rather like a lot Howells’ realistic comments on other issues too.

If you want real art, make a bee line for the Tate Britain gallery near Pimlico. It’ll enchant and humble you (well, it does me). If you want a free beer and just to keep a check on the “art-crime” scene, head along to somewhere like the Serpentine. You might be surprised – there might be something of value there (I mean real value, as opposed to monetary value), but don’t hold your breath. The most you are likely to see is the Emperor’s New Clothes; and, of course, you won’t even see them.

Blade Runner at the Royal Festival Hall

This evening I had the honour of attending a first class orchestral performance of Vangelis’ haunting soundtrack for the multi-layered filmic masterpiece that is Blade Runner. The event took place at the Royal Festival Hall, and it was one of those very rare pieces of art whereby you look at it and think “this could not have been done better”. It could have been differently - Massive Attack, the producers, could have remixed the score and modernised it – but that would have been very risky. Instead the music was performed faithfully to the score. It was majestic, massive and atmospheric, and it included faultless vocal performances.

Vangelis’ score accounts for perhaps 40% of the impact of Blade Runner (and the remaining 60% easily out-ranks many other films, even without music). It aurally paints the atmosphere of the future noir, mish-mash world that we must try to avoid, and what strikes me is the way Vangelis achieved a sound of delicate humanity and vulnerability battling against mechanised, confused but overpowering modernity. He achieved this in the language of music, not words, as a pioneering genius of the synthesizer.

The skill of the orchestra and the work of all involved in this project was outstanding. An artistic success. Modern “artists”, take note: there is no substitute for sheer skill and hard work.

My only aside is that I was shocked to see “3D” from Massive Attack in print on the RFH literature saying the soundtrack was “f**king amazing”. This was totally out of place and the Royal Festival Hall should retain some idea of decency even if 3D cannot.

John Everett Millais: The Knight Errant

A trip to the Royal Opera House

This evening I went to see Wagner’s Parsifal at the Royal Opera House in London. Parsifal is approximately five hours long. Wagner’s music, like Richard Strauss’, is sweeping, haunting and majestic, but he was rather preoccupied with superstition and legend and this opera features a good deal of talk about “holy spears”, “holy grails” and the like. Nonetheless, it is an enjoyable fantasy.

The Royal Opera House (if you haven’t been) is a beautiful building with, of course, excellent acoustics, and it features several sumptuous dining areas. Next time I’ll reserve a table.

The thing that shocked me about the evening, however, was the appearance of many of the paying public. There were many ruddy-faced well-fed men whom one suspected might be at the opera more because it was “the thing to do” rather than because of a deep love of classical music and opera in particular, but also many people who had obviously made no effort whatsoever over their appearance.

I had got a little dressed up. I may not have looked great (my best suit is ivory, and I deemed black more suitable for the event) but I made an effort. Many other people, however, wore jeans, caps, trainers, whatever. Nothing wrong with those, in their place, but where is the decorum in society these days? Once was the day that everybody would dress smartly in evening wear to an opera – it was an occasion.

I considered this state of affairs to be another indicator of the general decline of standards in society. The Royal Opera House should introduce a dress code. I found myself wondering: if a £360 trip there is not enough to make people consider dressing up a little and taking a pride in their appearance, what exactly is?

Amateur

Today I was working at a design agency in Soho. Though I like the guys there a lot, down in the basement I saw the strangest thing: the entire wall was covered by very amateur and rather pointless drawings. They were okay, but I found myself sincerely hoping that whoever did them was not paid very much. For as a woman says on the person’s site:

“Your drawings are creepy and horribly freakish and show a warped mind that seriously needs to be examined by a psychologist. Whoever wrote the review for your work also needs their head examining and after that if they still think that your work is of a quality that other people should be subjected to I suggest that they see the work of my 3 year old niece who rivals your ‘expertise’ and sign her for a multi million pound deal that she obviously deserves!”

- Natalie Murphy

Nicely put! Actually it has become fashionable these days for companies to pay people who have barely a modicum of talent to do silly things for them – the more pretentious the better – when they could actually pay far more talented people to do better things. This has been discussed by Dawkins and others in evolutionary terms. The idea is that if you waste a lot of money on stupid things you thereby make a statement “Look at us! We are so successful we can afford to throw money away on silly rubbish”. As I recall Dawkins is critical of this argument, but I can only imagine this is why it is done in business, as it makes no moral or aesthetic sense whatsosver.

A short appraisal of “24″

I don’t watch the television because there is so much rubbish on, however, the one programme I do watch on DVD is Fox Television’s 24, which is extremely well acted and produced. Its storylines can be contrived, granted, but the programme nonetheless teaches a variety of very important lessons, including:

• The need to keep our own problems in perspective.
• The importance of integrity.
• That things are not always as they seem.
• The importance of decisiveness.
• The need to be confident, clear and concise.
• Utilitarianism.
• The need to guard against political naivity and idealism.

While plot mechanisms can become tired, these principles never do.

Cultural evening: A lecture on Rumi

This evening I attended a lecture by Lady Mohini Kent Noon at Asia House (of which I am now a paid-up member) about the figure Rumi, who was a Sufist theologian and poet in around 1200 AD. It was to promote a new play called “Rumi : Unveil the Sun”.

Let me say clearly first of all that the people who organised this event were all highly gracious, and I had the pleasure of chatting with the Chief Executive of Asia House, who is a charming combination of so many admirable qualities they are too plentiful to list. Asia House themselves are to be commended, since they open up a dialogue between east and west, however I had some reservations regarding the subject at hand this evening. I’m sure Asia House would not deny me the freedom to express them.

It is always interesting to learn about other cultures, but this was really a celebration of the irrational, as we often see in the western world these days. Rumi was a Sufist Muslim who believed that poetry and dance was a “pathway to god”. Excuse me? Are we in the year 2007 or are we still in the year 1200, when people might have been excused for believing such nonsense?

As a rational humanist I am tired of hearing about god in this day and age and saddened to see such an unthinking celebration of a charlatan, or at best a delusional individual.

Following the speech there was a performance of some Indian music, and the musicians had travelled from Delhi only today. We need to be clear about this: they are probably nice people and it is admirable they had travelled from Delhi, however the music was somewhat primitive, lacking in melody, and involved a great deal of drum banging and wailing. Even worse, I fear I know what the wailing was about: it was more than likely about how miserable we are as mere humans and how great god is, which I (and many other humanists such as Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins) find sickening. We should face it: the music itself was not sophisticated and neither was the message.

What are we to make of all this? Well, it is typical of a trend in western society these days to idealise and romanticise times gone by and fantasise about “hidden meaning” etc. instead of being happy with what we have. This man Rumi was living at a time when people had no idea even what the sun was. We do not have sufficient grounds to accept his metaphysical claims, nor those of Mohammed or any other unproven mystics.

We must learn to separate morality from religion and frankly we should call a spade a spade. It is not admirable for people to quiver in self-deprecating submission to an imaginary deity while banging a drum – this is ridiculous and pales in comparison with the musical genius of Mozart, Beethoven or the likes of U2 or Sigur Ros, who craft multi-layered masterpieces of sophisticated emotional impact.

People: learn about other cultures – great – that’s what I do. But do not worship the primitive and absurd. Instead be thankful for how far we have come and how much more we understand now than they did then.

Addition: The gallery inside Asia House which I visited prior to the event was actually far superior to the event itself. It featured insightful photography of China in 1979. See my photos for this…

“My Sweet Rose” by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)

“Flaming June” by Lord Frederick Leighton (1830-1896)

Anne Pigalle @ the Cafe Royal

Last night’s event was a visit to the Café Royal to see a French woman called Anne Pigalle.

The event was held in the Café Royal Grill Room, which is a lovely environment, however it also served the most expensive beer I have ever had in London: at £5 for a bottle of mediocre Budweiser, this works out at approximately £10 per pint. It actually costs only 40p for a micro-brewery to make a far superior pint.

Looking at her web site, Anne Pigalle seems to be a kind of French lounge singer in the Burlesque tradition, but in fact she turned out to be a somewhat pathetic older lady with an adolescent fixation on sex and using extreme language presumably in the hope of shocking (but it didn’t shock anyone). There was no music from her, instead she read some “poetry” using the above-mentioned teenager’s language and encouraged the audience to virtually put on the show themselves, before finally – apparently – just giving up.

It was all a bit of fun if you didn’t take it seriously but somewhat disappointing in the talent stakes (in that there was none and we had paid £10 each to get in). There was also a man performing who was good at doing “stream of consciousness” delivery, but also seemed to have a fixation on juvenile language (and on sex generally) and most of us around the table agreed these two had some considerable issues that would be better dealt with by professionals.

Do check out the Café Royal, but take along your gold card and look out for a quality event.

Squatters’ Paradise

This evening I attended a standard private view in Heddon Street, which is a delightful area of London, full of cafes and bars, right next to Regent Street. The art exhibited some technical skill (not much, so as to remain fashionable) and I had an enjoyable chat with a lady who turned out to be one of the gallery staff. We discussed yoga and what fad it has become. I also mentioned a mystical friend of mine who frequently declares that he can release energy from trees, and I explained that the only way to release energy from trees is to burn them, which caused her much mirth. It is surprising how many people will actually admit reason if you merely present it to them plainly. It is possible to break the charade of Emperor’s New Clothes.

But I have a real gem for you now. The title of my article may rhyme with Carter’s great track Shoppers’ Paradise, but it is about the fact that after the Heddon Street gallery I visited the ex-Iraqi consulate in Knightsbridge, which since 6th July has been taken over by a bunch of squatters. They clambered through an open back window and – due to the absurd laws of this country – are allowed to stay to deface the premises until the owners get around to evicting them. They have created what they call an art gallery, but I have photographed it to prove otherwise.

This “gallery” was really notable in that it exhibited no talent whatsoever. In fact it was indistinguishable from your local tip. There were simply rooms full of junk. The only interesting thing about the exhibition was having a look at what used to be the Iraqi consulate, since one or two rooms seemed to be fairly intact and unmolested by the squatters and gave an impression of what it might once have been like. From a personal perspective, as a programmer who has spent many hundreds of hours researching hard facts in order to create functional art, I am disdainful of these people’s pretentious non-achievements in the same way that a trained classical violinist might be. As they say, there is nothing wrong with being open-minded, but you should not be so open-minded that your brains fall out. Show me some talent and some substantial commentary, and I will show you some respect.

On my way out from this labyrinthine den of disorder, the navigating of which felt a little like playing a first person shooter game, I communicated with one of the organisers, who explained that the squatters are due in court in the morning and will probably be evicted. Obviously none of these people (despite being literate) have the slightest intention of developing any skills or getting gainful employment and, since they are illegally occupying the premises it is only right that they are evicted – but to where would they be moving, I enquired? “Oh, a place in Mayfair”, he said. “Well, that’s not too bad”, I replied, “even I can’t afford to live there”.

Another cultural evening

This evening I attended a private view at a gallery in St James’ area, followed by a series of Korean traditional dances introduced by the Korean Ambassador to the UK at Asia House, which is an establishment of some stature, designed to nurture relations between Asia and the United Kingdom.

The private view featured paintings which were quite nice to look at but – as is so common for modern art – required no special technical expertise and conveyed no discernible message. They each cost in the region of £15,000. One sometimes wonders whether the organisers of these events should all club together and open a tailors specialising in the creation of Emperor’s New Clothes, for it is this at which they truly excel.

(Here is a painting, for the sake of contrast, which is more technically skilled that those I saw this evening and does carry a very interesting message, since it illustrates an important discovery by an extremely clever English mathematical physicist.)

The Korean dances were most curious. There was a lot of posing and posturing, there were a lot of strange fixed fake smiles and a lot of slow, deliberate movements which don’t strictly speaking pass as dancing. The white face make-up and the general contrived nature of it all even made it a little scary at times. This was not helped by the music, which was very primitive, lacked melody, and was punctuated with occasional drum banging. All in all, the event was certainly interesting (and the refreshments afterwards gratefully received), but it served to show what a cultural gulf there indeed is between East and West and how far music has come since these “tunes” were in vogue.

I am never impressed with dance except for some fine ballet, but watching this event I found myself reflecting on the greatness of the likes of Beethoven and Coldplay, their mastery of music as the language of emotion, and again wondering how many people were clapping out of admiration and how many because they daren’t admit to the Emperor that he was – nearly – naked (at least down to his underpants). I can honestly say that my favourite part of the event was the end, because this is when the dancers showed some genuine emotion, their faces coming alive with true feeling and real, beautiful, smiles.

A private view

[I don't usually write "diary" type entries, but here is one.]

I am beginning to enjoy these private views immensely, and the private parties afterwards. See below a “work of art” at last night’s event:

Yes, that’s right, it is a breeze block suspended above a record player with some microphones. I wondered if the item I found on the wall, on the right, might be an exhibit too?

The private club afterwards (Hedges & Butler, off Regent Street) was very nice. Although it has been slated on the Internet I thought it had some character, having once been a wine cellar. Needless to say, there were a lot of pretentious people exclaiming “Darling! Mwah!” and throwing their arms around each other, but I liked the LPs lying around, and was engrossed in a serious philosophical conversation with a man who really did know his stuff and would even periodically get out a pen and paper and express his points in formal modal logic. What a delight!