Robert Hughes vs. Damien Hirst

Major snaps to Robert Hughes for his Anti-Damien stance as shown in this weekend's addition of the Guardian Review (13/9/2008), and for the ongoing rap battle between the two.

I am obviously biased, due to my opinion that Hughes is a genius and Hirst, to put it lightly, is not.
Of course, Hughes' opinion is constructive in an entirely deconstructive way; he wants to see Hirst's methods fall, and fall fast. Hughes, as a leading critic of art in the 20th century, has shown time and time again his ability to intelligently, humourously and articulately express his opinions regarding the ever changing art world. His approach to some modern developments in art could be seen as unfair - for example, his harsh view on Barbara Kruger, whose works include pieces such as Your Body Is A Battleground (1989) - but his Hirst piece was pitch perfect.

While the comparison of an artist and an art critic is not a common approach to take, in this case it may be apt for discovering where one succeeds and the other fails. While Hirst can certainly be seen as financially successful, in expressive terms he certainly falls short. His response to informed criticism from Hughes was "He probably cried when Queen Victoria died." Although this - along with the quip "Robert Who?" - can be seen on the one hand as baffling yet amusing non sequiturs, on further contemplation, it just shows Hirst as being tragically incapable of intelligently expressing himself.

This was also shown in his interview on Radio 4's Front Row last Monday; all I really got from it is that he liked money. And that he is a fool. Which I already knew. And that he compared his methods to someone working in a factory producing postcard versions of the Mona Lisa, and that he would rather be that accessible than have his work hidden behind glass and harshly guarded. OH, SWEET SWEET IRONY.

I am trying to justify my hatred of a man who is obviously a charlatan. There is no point. It will not make him any less of a charlatan.

The points in the competition thus far:

Hughes: OVER NINE THOUSAND.

Hirst: Nil.

Anyway, I've got my last chance to go to the Sotheby's auction tomorrow to check things out; fuck that shit, I'm getting my hair cut.

p.s. I would like to thank my fan base. Thank you, Becky.

Francis Bacon

I was lucky enough to be able to attend the press launch of the New Francis Bacon Exhibition at Tate Britain on Tuesday. I say that I was "lucky enough"; in actual fact, it is incredibly easy to get into a press showing. They didn't ask for any proof of identity, and I just wrote "Rose Rowson, BBC" on their signing in book. I do not work for the BBC. I never have worked for the BBC. I am certainly not qualified to work for the BBC. I am not Michael Caine.

So, having gained entry and also demanded a press release, I got to see the lovely lovely exhibition with some of the lovely lovely media. They had microphones. I was in awe of their power. There were also cameras. I hope that my stupid tights were filmed and will subsequently be famous. I also hoped that I might see Tom Lubbock or Brian Sewell, but I unforutunately did not. The day will come.

It was amazing getting to see one of my favourite paintings, Pope Innocent X, in the flesh. (When said aloud, the X should be said as the letter, not as the Roman numeral, while making the X Factor "X" sign with arms). Bacon's paint work is notable in that less is more, his style is defined by the build up of layers of paint, creating an image that convincingly portrays mass. Many studies of the painting are in the exhibition, which shows the piece moving further and further away from it's Velasquez origins.

Bacon is really good at painting teeth. Like, really good.

While the exhibition is commendable for bringing many career defining pieces and relatively unknown paintings together in an enviroment where they can be compared easily, it does have some downsides. One being a basically wasted room used to tell us that Bacon used photographs as a reference. Oh my goodness. I would never have thunk. For true? He used books and photography to influence his work?! NO WAI. This room could easily have been set aside for something else, i.e. MOAR PAINTINGS. It was a waste of time telling the audience what they already knew.
Another let down in the exhibition (but possibly hopeful for any aspiring artists, showing that even the masters were shit sometimes), was the room appropriately entitled CRISIS, which contained probably the worst paintings I have ever, ever seen, done while Bacon was in Africa. They are meant to be landscapes, of sunsets and so on, but he uses so much paint that it merely resembles Matisse, Lucian Freud and a bunch of non-descript Impressionists having a fight with lots of Prussian Blue and Cold Yellow paint. Seriously terrible in every single way. There's no form, all subtlety disappears. I feel that this may be somewhat linked to his desertion of red as the base colour of his work, and the lack of semi-human forms, as he works best in flesh tones.

Despite these minor compaints, the exhibition is one of the best I've seen this year, and I'll definitely be going again in the next few weeks. The one problem I generally have with Bacon is that many people approach him as a gay artist, but he shouldn't be exclusively defined through his sexuality, as is shown through the depth and scope of subject in the exhibition.

Props to the gift shop for the X firdge magnets. No props to the gift shop for stealing my money which I willingly handed over to pay for reading list books.

http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/francisbacon/default.shtm

Soon I'll probably be checking out the Rothko at Tate Modern and the Freize Art Fair. But don't quote me on that.

p.s. Go to Tate Britain to see the new Martin Creed installation as well; you can't miss it. Mainly because it is people. Running around the gallery.

...

There is something which I really appreciate about bad internet artwork. Not websites like deviantART or variants thereof, but rather myspace albums. Of crude pencil - or, at worst, oil pastel - drawings. Self portraits. Or darling sketches of musicians. You've really captured the proportions of that photograph, especially the pixels. And the shadows from the badly photographed sheet of lined A4. NME.com will get you for infringement of copyright. Or, rather, they would if what you produced bore any likeness to your intentions.

Art is defined by taste, obviously. Which is why I hate Matisse, Cezanne, the majority of Impressionism, David Hockney, Damien Hirst, Gilbert & George etc etc etc, but why the majority of people probably don't. Or at least don't hate in that particular combination. Or as strongly. Or as rationally, I irrationally state.

Yet moving on from this and back to the question of taste, I wonder why I can find pathetic examples of botched, paint-by-numbers indie tracings which are bombarded with positive comments. Is there something wrong with me? Can I, bitterly, not see the talent within? Or am I the voice of reason in all this chaos?

My problem is not with self expression through drawing; I am only a grammar Nazi, not a art fascist, despite evidence to the contrary (see above; re. the way I approach the art world in general; the dismissal of established and critically acclaimed artists; etc). Rather, my problem is with the lack of constructive criticism given by the reams of OL friends that comment pictures, accusing them of being "awesome", "stunning" and "favourite".

Maybe I am being harsh. But I know that I'm not. I believe that when anyone is willing to put their talent in the public sphere, they should prepare to be ripped to shreds. Yet it is now incredibly easy to put your work into the public sphere. Maybe this is where the problem arises; individuals are reluctant to comment truthfully on an obvious piece of garbage produced by an Internet Celebrity because they are not Anonymous; anyone can access their information by following a link. It's the Emperor's New (/Groove) Clothes, but digital. Whatever happened t constructive criticism? If the commenting exercise was based in anything except boosting someone's internet ego and minimally increasing the opportunity for friends, then derivative statements such as those previously mentioned would mean next to nothing.

And yet while Internet Celebrities, particularly adolescent ones, do not have the power to change the way a whole generation views the art world, I believe that compliments based on shared music taste and social cliques in terms of artwork should be discouraged. But when it boils down to it, it isn't these ones that I should be getting a chip on my shoulder about; it's the ones with talent.



Don't get me started on amateur photography. Don't get me fucking started.

(sorry if this is all drivel, I haven't been in essay mode for a while and should probably work on it before I am doing something that counts again)

I received my provisional driving license in the post today. This means that I shall no longer have to carry my precious, precious passport on my person when desiring to be served cigarettes or alcohol, or get into a Venue, or to vote in elections I haven't yet registered for. Fuck you, Votes for Women. Fuck you.


Pankhurst hatred based digression aside, I received my laminated piece of magic, and immediately lamented the potentially ruined careers of many a counterfeiter. This thing is one massive hologram. It's very advanced for an example of government production. It's embossed. I felt like Christian Bale in American Psycho. Whenever I see someone's driving license my immediate reaction is that it must be fake, because my mental age is still about 14. Having The Real Thing just isn't as fun. And also, The Real Thing looks pretty difficult to fake now. So my heart goes out to everyone who has to stop encouraging fraud. Hopefully I will never have to.


I only used my fake one once, at Koko when I was about 15. It didn't work. It's in my room somewhere. I may use it in order to get turned away from somewhere. For nostalgia's sake. Also to be socially awkward. It might be funny.

...

I bulletin on a regular basis. My my my my my my myspace page has become less of a social experiment and more of a soapbox. For poor puns and sarcastic quizzes. And now with everyone more or less racing away from spaces to faces, I don't want my outlet to change. I like writing. I like writing on the internet, and thinking that people might read it. I love the sound of my own typing. So here I am.

Despite my position as an artist (read: art student; big fish little pond; ideas above her station), I believe that words can be stronger than pictures. Your own words in the place of something generically indie and black and white. Couple... kissing... haute... couture... Chanel... vodka... cigarettes... France... birds... tattoos... 1940s... it's so me!
It is painfully easy to take a good black and white picture. You've only got two complementary colours to fuck with. It's even easier to set up a Photobucket account. And really, who needs html when you got words?