I am all of a glow as C & S, sister bloggers, claim they will write to me if I become a political prisoner.[see below] Very nice, but more importantly girls write to God or Gordon or somebody to get me out, failing that send the library van!
The Russians were amazing, and Matisse' Dancers were boggling. So bright, the dancers are almost fluorescent orange. The painting is as big as my dining room wall, any one of my walls. It is gorgeous, I wish I was a talented octopus so I could stitch, paint and write all at once.
The whole show was exciting to me and S as it had so many different ?styles of painting, loads of energy pulsating off the walls, which are themselves pulsating as they are painted either fuchsia pink or lapis lazuli blue. the paintings leap at you.
We rotated in a daze and came to rest in front of the Matisse at intervals.The huge shambling Picasso woman was beckoning from the periphery, but Matisse won.
Then we went into the Cranach exhibition across the hall, as I love his weird high breasted nudes, unlike old Matisse they are small and exquisite, and a little subtle naughtiness in their eyes, tho as a pal of Martin Luther I don't know if Cranach realised that. Probably. maybe he didn't mean it kindly as women were usually the route of all evil it seemed. S was entranced with the skill of the painting, tiny miracles.
An Art Gallery is a strange place. Given i do produce the odd piece which sells, I imagine it fondly under anothers happy gaze, perhaps gently lit from above on their dining room wall. Perhaps not.
But in a gallery all the work is piled on the walls like a supermarket, each clammering for attention, or lost behind something more noticeable. We march thru - attention caught or not. All that work and commitment and probably not looked at for more than 5seconds, before attention wanders on to thoughts of a cup of tea. Bit like blogging really. That's OK, the process is the thing.
I sometimes took kids to Galleries when I was a teacher [I won't claim I was "teaching" ]and usually we just marched cheerfully thru and then raced for the ice cream van. I hoped that at least they got the idea that such huge building existed [often the largest place they had ever been, except maybe Court?] and might want to go back when they matured.
One good effect of putting stuff in a Gallery is that then we know someone regards it as art. So much conceptual art might be thrown in a skip as rubbish if it was placed outside. Often in Tate Modern I will doubtfully regard a bench or a light switch, not sure if it is functional or valuable.
We did, amazingly, totter on the Tate M [such resilience in ones so old] and viewed the new Cornelia Parker [She of the exploded shed and squashed brass band, both of which I admire]. For Easter, or not, she has done Thirty Pieces of Silver.
Collected loads of old silver tea services and other silver bric a brac and steam rollered it into approximate flatness [some rebelled and maintained a profile] then had each individual piece suspended from the high ceiling on fishing line, into 30 circles , just inches above the floor. You really have to be there.
It was impressive as a construction, Big. Clever-ish, thoughts of squashed aristocracy, middle class parlours, also attractive - but not a patch on Matisse' Dancers ll