the
hampstead art society's exhibition space at the royal free hospital
Wandering
around headlessly looking up to the ceiling for signs to the lifts, avoiding the
legions of broken legs (jutting out of wheelchairs like medieval war machines),
the blind, the distraught, the doctors, trolleys and children all busily attacking
each other down a long but wide corridor, I came across another potentially disastrous
distraction: a wall of paintings.
My
sister was on floor 3 in Intensive Care following a hit-and-run the night before,
and I only glanced at the wall, so full was my dull sleep-deprived head with worry
about her. Martin Creed's neon 'DONT WORRY' piece popped into my mind and I imagined
it above the portal at the end of the hall. Or rather I wanted to feel that sentiment,
or be told something like that, or maybe my brain was constantly saying it anyway.
I imagined walking underneath it on the way to finally getting into the lift,
and hearing the soft buzz of the cool blue neon sign steadily growing then receding
above me. At that moment, the way I was feeling, art may have given me a pseudo-religious
lift for the first time.
First
shown at The Chelsea and Hammersmith Hospital nearly 2 years ago, in a show of
the same name, (one I only managed to read about and see photos of, alas) Creed's
simple, gentle, warm and amusing 'Don't Worry', was clearly a magical and moving
piece of work. Originally hung in the cafe, for people to stare at over those
appalling NHS BLT sandwiches, possibly for hours as loved ones and patients endured
operations, bad news, sickness, screaming, prunes and custard, immobility, this
little gem humming away on its own manages to hit all the spots, a rarity in art
when such economy is in use.
It
operates as both a New Labour campaign and a message from The Arch Angel Gabriel,
or God itself. Or Vanessa Feltz and Mother Teresa. It intimates the possibility
of the afterlife, but to me, suggests that the afterlife is a dead cert, with
its bone-dry humour yawning at this knowledge. Its part existential, part childish.
It would both be a bad idea and a good idea to have this piece replicated for
every hospital in the world.
All
hospitals have an involvement with art, it has to of course, because of the very
physicality of the buildings, its long long corridors and expanse of empty wall
space has to be cheered up. Unlike office buildings, crammed with photos of 'Head
of Blah Blah'..., 'Employee of The Week' and 'We Made This/ We Would Have Liked
To Have Made This', in hospitals - photographic portraits of consultants + doctors,
health officials and politicians with girl with broken neck - would not seem so
appropriate.
Before my sisters 6-hour operation to mend her shattered arms, I asked to watch
the operation (indeed I wanted to perform some of it, if I can do IKEA I thought...).
I wanted to see the doctors make the incisions, bull back and clamp the flesh,
drill into her bones with their top quality Black & Decker's, screw those screws,
see how the hell they inserted the rods, hear the weird relaxed chitchat as they
nailed in the plates. I received a no, but it got me thinking about hospitals
peppered with expansively large colour photographs of operations, possibly by
Andreas Serrano. 'Left Leg Amputation by Dr Joseph Baker' | 4 hrs 41 mins | 1998
or an Alison Jackson triptych; 'Diana Visiting Jimmy Saville Without Her Gloves
On in The George & Mary Ward', 2002. [1] No Damien Hirst.
There
are of course walls littered with non art pictures - happy patient posters mostly,
though these are sinister and frightening; a picture of an elderly gentleman with
his sleeve rolled up, an easy smile on his face as he looks round lovingly at
a nurse with hypodermic syringe. It's an obvious betrayal of reality at a time
when you might be desperate for truth and honesty. Tell it to me straight Doc.
There are many illustrations of anatomical drawings, of skull fractures, blood
clots et al, plus one rather dark series of cartoons of a man lying on the floor
assuming the various positions of each and every possible break; Compound Fracture
to the Leg, Broken Collar Bone etc. with the reassuring note at the bottom which
reads, 'It is highly unlikely to receive all these fractures at the same time'.
But you can't fill buildings with this.
Sunday
paintings grate in galleries, because, as in the happy patient posters, there's
so much stuff left out. They can simply be depressingly bad as well, for all their
innocence. But the display of work by the Hampstead Art Society (H.A.S) was gratefully
received, much more so than the 2 John Bratby's and the small I've got a lot of
brown paint left over from today's work, what shall I do with it now? piece, done
on paper by Albert Irvin in a corridor further down.
(Opposite
these few works is a chocolate-box, but nevertheless efficient chocolate-box painting
of a country garden/bench/flower-bed picture produced by one of the surgeons at
The Royal Free). The H.A.S exhibition of rotating paintings hang crammed together
Salon-like below strip lights and signposts, and ask nothing much from you except
yuck and nice.
Small
still lifes, flowers in vases with customary compositional crutch of a piece of
fruit lying untidily beside it, double portraits of teddy bears and dolls, animal
portraits and various landscapes, faux Matisse, faux Cezanne, the odd seascape
or two, a few overly stylised abstracts. A few disappointed, one full faced portrait
of an expressionless New York Fireman did feel squeamishly sentimental, but it
was saved by the distraction of an excellent painting of soccer star Michael Owen
skinning another hapless German defender during the 5-1 rout below it, and a bargain
at 100 (unfortunately bought before I could get my camera on it, but cheered nonetheless).
This is Sunday
painting at its peak, a strange, particularly English mix, or rather Hampstead
mix of sentiments that neither ask questions, nor seek to be questioned. Most
I would guess would vote Conservative/New Labour, were women, going by the names,
and wear eccentric hats and drink herbal teas. Most point to an idealised postmodern,
politically correct, House & Country sense of romanticism. The hanging basket
of art, with pansies. The water-feature of painting, inspired by Alan Titchmarsh
[2]. They are painted for enjoyment and relaxation, and appreciated in the same
way. Its a strangely pleasant transaction. [3]
To
look at pictures without the crap, even though I actively seek and demand that
crap, is, here, a perversely enjoyable yet annoyingly difficult experience to
criticise, possibly because they're not asking to be criticised. Unlike Jim Dine's
show at the ICA some time ago, this is not a glimpse of a forgotten and dark underbelly
of society either. (Reflective pause).
However,
the paintings, prints and the odd photo (though these were particularly bland)
offered much enjoyment for everyone walking by, like an attractive tramp, yet
I doubt many works would linger in the mind for long. Good art does linger, irks
you, forces long-term thought (5 mins), same as anything. Sometimes you come back
to a work, occasionally many returns are wanted. I HAD to return to the H.A.S
show, yet even though I had to walk past it 10 times a day (if your loved one
is long term and you smoke), it never bored.
I
liked to imagine the artists making a good living from it, or how old they were,
what tea cups they used, how their friends admired their work, and if they thought
the pictures held any meaning, any layers, and how they'd interpret this input
verbally.
ending
bit:
There is a vast difference between the ambitions of the Chelsea and Hammersmith
Hospital's exhibition to The Royal Free I've been living in, but none whatsoever
in the value that art gives. The C+H should be applauded for its bold, humourous
and inventive thought-provoking works, but The Royal Free can chill and pat themselves
on the back for showing this mawkish tosh.
notes
[1]. Jimmy Saville: Well known cigar smoking, marathon running charity worker,
with a serious Oedipus complex.
[2]. Alan Titchmarsh. Beloved gardening expert
on the BBC, as well as being famous for wearing worse jumpers than Antony D'Offay
and being lusted over by middle aged housewives in Tunbridge Wells, my local gardening
centre (I'm a keen gardener), or mega gardening complex, (they sell lamps and
stuff now as well) you can buy a double cassette of Alan's favourite pieces of
classical music at the checkout, in fact, I do believe they play it all day over
the Tannoy.
[3]. One thing you don't want to look at when your loved one
is fighting death is an earnest piece of work about how it feels to be in a hospital
while a loved one is fighting death. I tried to imagine a piece about what it
would feel like to look at an earnest piece of work about what it feels like to
be in a hospital while your loved one was fighting death while your loved one
was fighting death. But not for long.
-
APENDICITUS
Not
sure where I was going to put these points:
1 - After college you'd do cleaning
jobs to pay off your debts.
2 - Help people in case they're rich.
3
- Use common sense.
4 - Royal Families have too much time on their hands.
5 - Doctors should be better trained.
