steven
meisel at white cube 2, london
The
White Cube 2 (WC 2) gallery has large, clean, crisp, bright white walls, spacious
but not vast, and is flooded by natural cool grey light above. It's the classic,
self consciously pure and 'minimalist' space in town. WC 2 isn't dumb though.
But it often just seems .. I dunno.. a bit late? Or is art itself inherently late?
Or is it me who's late?
Meisel,S. 2001. Image from
WC 2 show.
I've
always enjoyed seeing what's in there though, not as much as going to the first
White Cube near the Royal Academy, as that genuinely offers surprises, (the Fischli/Weiss
slide show of flowers springs to mind, a piece too wonderful for my words), but
as a barometer to the glam Brit art scene and its allies, it's well.. it. I heard
that Steven Meisel's recent show of Versace photographs was populluted by bouncers
and paparazzi at the opening, coz Ms Versace was there, smiling a lot I guess
and waving. I also heard that Meisel forked out a lot of his own money to make
the photos, which I thought interesting. The usual business being assist, buy
up, sell on.
This
is, as far as I know, the first time Miesel has shown his photographs in a British
art gallery, after making his name as a fashion photographer, his gallery wall
the fashion mags. I don't know anything about the why's and wherefor's of a fashion
photographer wanting to 'break' into the art world, so I won't prejudge, but some
blur the barriers with consummate ease, some look as if they're having a go.
What
I can guess is that Jay Jopling, the owner of WC 2, wants a piece of superass.
I have time for Jopling though, in the way that I don't have time for Saatchi,
even though I have time for him if you see what I mean. On walking out of the
show however, it left a bad taste in my mouth, a bit like the Guinness in the
bar next door [1], but it was relieved, just a tad, by the autumn breeze, and
a clear, bright blue sky.
I'd
left 10 or so large (just under 2m sq I'd say, and all framed behind glass) photographs
of models, two of them, both with long blonde hair, one imagining the end, the
other imagining imagining the end of their respective modeling careers, either
on their own or together, sitting, posing (sneering?) like mannequins (an awful
analogy maybe, but unfortunately appropriate).
Incidentally,
while I'm here, and I feel this is important enough not to demote to a footnote,
but when, say in football, a crowd feels that it's team is not getting a fair
share of the decisions, and then seemingly out of the blue, gets an obvious (or
not) free kick, they/we cheer the decision, in unison. Is this sarcasm or irony?
TV + radio commentators are always saying, 'The crowd there.. cheering ironically
at the referee'.
But
is it irony? No Motty, it isn't, and I'll be letting you know very soon. Sitting
here now, looking at the ceiling, finally taking time out to solve this problem
that's been bugging me for ages.. what would constitute an ironic reaction
to this all too familiar scene? Would even a cheer for a bad decision for the
aggrieved side constitute irony? Or would it be just another bad decision, that
inspires the continuation of derision through sarcasm? Answers on an email please
to robert@filler.demon.co.uk).
Back
at White Cube 2, the works are all hands wrapped round kneecaps, rings for show,
everything housed in the quintessential Versace dream - marble, glass, chandeliers,
there was a dog somewhere I think, or maybe that was me, great acres of space,
split by columns, rugs, beds, chez-lounges, a lot of beige, pale gold, white,
silver, deep greens and reds, with each corner of the differing interiors observed,
designed, thought about and wasted time on.
The
models are the focus, a headscarf near the top, the point of a heel stuck at the
endless end of a crossed long leg at the bottom. They are always looking out,
straight-faced, serious, as they should be in a serious art gallery. They seem
to be saying, 'You love it... you know you want it.' So are we asked to envy or
laugh at this display of opulent post-success sophistication? I couldn't figure
out which, which is the art bit I suppose.
Versace's
now dead of course, murdered indeed, and I wondered if that was part of the curatorial
thinking. Jopling doesn't miss many tricks either, and likes death as we all do,
but here, it somehow felt like it was the beginning of the end of the White Cube's
importance. Like Versace. For some reason it wasn't nice standing there, with
nothing much to grab on to. I quite like that feeling usually, but here, I was
left a little frustrated, a little damp. Patrick Bateman crossed my mind, which
helped enormously. Brian de Palma came to mind as well, as did Dwight Yorke, Francis
Bacon, Jim Davidson and Satan's little helper - Lawrence Llywellen-Bowen [2].
The
ideology of fashion rests on a basic equation; that to buy is to belong, or, in
order to belong you must buy, and maybe it's here where the works do find some
semblance of power, because you wouldn't want to belong, so you're not going to
buy. Goodbye.
Notes
[1]. The Guinness has a tang reminiscent of Mr. Uppity's Chocolate Yoghurt
type pudding, with a rather fetching bubbly patch in the middle of the head (which
completely disappears towards the end).
[2].
A tawdry moronic perversion of a being, who designs interiors for telelollyvision.
It might be trite to complain about N-list celebrities, but it's pretty hard to
keep in the spit, bile and general invective of people like this. I feel sick
already knowing that his filthy washed up flowing tar-black hair is spinning round
the u-bend of my mind right now as I try desperately to invent a new language
and his ... oh god my mouth is filling with saliva... his floral cuffs, and his
3/4 length jackets, and the way he flicks his head and the way he thinks about
a problem and the way he's so excitable and his mirrors and his boots and his
ideas... I could write 4,000 words on this poor man alone, all adjectives, and
yet on seeing, listening, looking at his twitty, pathetic and embarrassing results,
you'd still think I was being kind. Like the worst evening-class you can imagine
(no.. go further.. yes that's it.. and a bit more.. oh you'll never get you IDIOT!),
this sick .. (oh god I can't think) .. this sick fuck, whilst destroying decent
homes all over the country in his makeover programmes has managed to make the
English believe that they too, can design their own living space - to express
themselves - through his spirit - oh god - through his enthusiasm, to create our
own stinking hell-holes full of floral hand painted patterned murals slapped on
pastel walls, and bows ... bows for god's sake, around curtains!?, themes... no..
no!!!!.. themes!.. oh god give me anything but the themes!!!!
A Romanesque
fruit bowl, a Greek urn lit softly in the corner, lights .. wrapped around with
fresh autumn twigs, shafts of smokey white light dancing lazily off hazy walls,
cushions plumped, the candles.. shhhh... oh the candles yes.. yes.. yes!!..
oh just there Lawrence.. more.. yes.. different sizes ... oh you're so good.
(singing,
tying up my noose)
"Paint
your MDF... blue and grey..
Vincent
did it a simple way
But Lawrence has taken my breath away
Oh please oh please oh go away"
