The Tate Modern has opened an exhibition of the work of Cy Twombly (in calling up the website, my google page wanted to be sure I wasnt really after Wombling) - no - but CyTwombly certainly presents a challenge to anagrammers - I failed on my own to make anything coherent in English, and the first website I went to also failed, even with dropping one, or even two - or is that three - of the letters in his improbable name*. Maybe it is not his real name but was born as a handful of pasta letters he took out of a packet and artfully threw them on a glue-based surface ...
coincidentally, I have just received a copy of Kings Parade, a six monthly periodical designed to make me feel good about (and cough up a legacy in my will to) my old college; and that prints a charming picture of Frances Morris who graduated in 1978 in Art History. She is quoted as saying of herself that she was "a rather strident and opinionated person who smoked a pipe and wore women's land army breeches". Many of us change our ways after undergraduatehood, and(?)/but(?) Morris is now "Curator of Tate Modern where, as Head of Collections, International Art, she is in charge of acquisitions for the collection of modern and contemporary art from all over the world".
*might (Pseudo)Welsh accept something like: Tymobly Cwm ?
the Evening Standard gave the assembly a five star mark:
http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/artexhibition-20646808-details/Cy+Twombly:+Cycles+&+Seasons/artexhibitionReview.do?reviewId=23496933
the spectator, also offered a lot of praise from its art critic
http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/arts/797131/traces-of-self.thtml
yet the Spectator chose to follow its eulogy of twombly with an article from someone who writes seldom, as he is a sculptor who expresses himself that way. Alexander Stoddart has made a much larger than life statue of Adam Smith, unveiled on Independence Day in Edinburgh's High Street.
http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/arts/797141/how-the-west-was-won.thtml
Stoddart is uncharacteristically articulate and choate for a visual artist. We can see exactly what he represents in his monument to Adam Smith. I can see exactly what he says in his reflections on what he calls modernism, in various arts (I think there might be some challenge to those he includes, whom others might like to categorise as postModern .... - but that's a minor matter, alongside the very cogent and serious case Stoddart makes).
In a crucial paragraph he puts it this way:
The Left, early in the last century, failed to secure direct revolution in the West, so another tactic was adopted — to dismantle the institutions of the Occident in a long, piecemeal slog. The focus fell on the arts, and this explains why the high music and visual arts of today are so startlingly different from anything you might encounter in undeconstructed times. Where the family, say, was singled out as a sinister and coercive societal institution, so certain artistic forms likewise became suspect: the tune; the rhyme; the moulding; the plinth. Today they are half-heartedly trying to reconstruct the family; but the cultural institutions are proving harder to patch up and this can be attributed to something in the artistic forms of traditionalism that the newly barbarised human being deeply dreads. The Modernism of the last century has forged a sub-sensibility, where man is engineered to be a healthy kind of ignoramus — a Superman — unneedful of the analgesic mercies that art of the old sort delivered into the veins of suffering humanity. The pain is the gain — so let’s write poems that are merely chopped prose, boil our testicles to win the Turner prize, build houses that look like washing machines for living in and, if we make statues at all, make sure they are bolted down at pavement level, so we can ‘interact’ with them (usually with some vomit on a Saturday night).
We may expect a lot of people to have been bruised by him, and to hit back. I'm with Stoddart. Good for him and his work and good for the case he has spoken out.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
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well, if nobody else leaves a comment - so I will....
We have paid attention in previous notes to Twombly and what people have said of his work; some of us have been to the exhibition ...
Yesterday the Standard treated us to (yet) another look at Twombly. Richard Godwin is not entirely iconoclastic but he gives us a good chance to "play science" with the world of crarticism.
My idea is that if the positions of words in a seemingly sentient sentence can be exchanged, to produce somthing equally seemingly sentient (or insentient, in both cases) - then
either something beautifully appropriate characterises the words moved around
or
something worse is going on - we are in the realm of mumbledegook
lets see - take the words as I have down-loaded them, and where I have put them in bold red - and then look at the paragraph where I have just merrygo-rounded them a bit - now they are in green.
Does the red make indestructibly better sense than the green? Or vice versa? I can't see better sense in one form over the other. No doubt that's just me.
Or am I saying that one can not use words-in-text as Twombly - and so many others - use gobs of paint? And then, why should not the paint have the same tough conditions for delivering meaning, as do words?
_____________________________
Cy Twombly: Cycles & Seasons - and Shiff's Shifft?
Tate Modern
Bankside, Holland Street, SE1 9TG
Description: A retrospective series of paintings, drawings and sculpture from the veteran American artist.
Twombly's art of confusion
By Richard Godwin, Evening Standard 11.07.08
Cy Twombly is the kind of artist that the critics find brilliant, profound and mystical and the average punter finds a bit of a mess. He is very much a painter of the "my kid could have done that" school, as a toe into Tate Modern's comprehensive survey of the American Abstract Expressionist's work confirms. My hunch is the critics dig him partly because his scribbles and dribbles are licence for them to indulge in their own abstract art: talking nonsense.
"For better or worse, Twombly's art nevertheless yields to conventional modes of exegesis," says a man called Richard Shiff in the introduction to the catalogue.
"Twombly's making joins art to life, life to art as an all-purpose glue. Sylvester's third term and Rauschenberg's gap acknowledge this making-factor."
compare
"Twombly's art joins making to life, making to art as an all-purpose term. Sylvester's third making-factor and Rauschenberg's glue acknowledge this gap-term."
"It's a few squiggles, innit?" might be a more normal response.
(and my comment: I dont get a lot more - or less meaning - out of the second - paragraph, than from the original .... This is the result of the scientific experiment - displacement of words causes no loss of perceived meaning - so each version is equally meaning-ful - or meaning-less). Back to Godwin's article ...
And yet Twombly does seem to invite the viewer - beg the viewer, even - to look for meaning in his doodles. They do seem rather well thought-out given they are supposed to be spontaneous. What do the numbers mean here? Why has he written "I have known the nakedness of my scattered dreams" on this one? Is that a fanny? If I were to write a sentence about the paradigms of primordial praxis and the irreducibility of intractable thought, would you reckon I knew what I was banging on about?
After a while, you can't help but theorise a little. In a painting called Crimes of Passion, I discerned a few sketchily drawn traps, of the kind that Wile E Coyote uses to try to get Roadrunner: a spring, a weight, a cliff, a flight of stairs. Is Twombly suggesting a particularly elaborate crime of passion? Or toying with the paradox of a premeditated crime of passion? How bamboozling!
These little traps cropped up again in Twombly's rather pleasing little sculptures, such as Aurora, which depicts a rose in a snare. Then suddenly I got it: the traps are a Twombly joke and a kind of warning to us: don't read too much into this, or you too will be caught in the snare of your own pretensions.
One is reminded of Rorschach's inkblots ....
By the time I got to the series of green pond paintings Twombly did for the Venice Biennale of 1988 I'd given up looking for meaning - these were vivid and lovely enough to override that urge. I just wanted to splash around inside them. Never mind Rauschenberg's gap.
So - hurry hurry ....!!
Runs until 14 September. Open until 10pm tonight and tomorrow; Sun 10am-6pm. Admission: £10, concs available. Information: 020 7887 8888; www.tate.org.uk
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