Went to see the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy last night. I sometimes find that art exhibitions make me feel utterly stupid because I dont always understand what Im looking at or what it is about a few scribbly lines that warrant an £8,000 price tag (and £5,000 for a limited run print. Tracy Emin, Im looking at you). The perpetual question of whether art is in the eye of the beholder, the hands of someone who calls themselves an artist, or inside the walls of a gallery. Why is it that in a gallery, you find yourself carefully stepping around what looks like an A4 sheet of paper lying on the floor next to one of the exhibits, just in case its part of it? But so much art seems to fall on a spectrum. At their best, some of the pieces are beautiful, witty, precise, tactile, detailed, a trick of perspective - at worst, you look at something with the sagging feeling of I couldve done that because its not about the talent or skill to create it, its about who thought of it first and had the audacity to submit it (I got annoyed by a big charred lump of wood). A touch of the Emperors new clothes. (I did entertain myself for a while wondering how to scrape together £180,000 for an impractically large sculpture for the priceless look on my brothers face if he came home one day and found it in his room. Im pretty sure I could charge admission and call it performance art). But its a lucrative industry. I have half a mind to buy a bejillion tubes of paint, sling them at a canvas and see if I can get something on the wall at the RA next year.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 08:50:55 +0000
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