Bad Romance

Tate Britain was once known as The Tate. A magnificent old building overlooking the Thames with views across the river to the big spy building (MI6 or MI5, I can never remember). But then the The Tate expanded, and there was Tate Modern - housed in a wonderful old power plant and Tate (insert regional city name here which you probably wouldn't want to visit) and so forth.

Tate Britain specialises in British artists and rather confusingly includes modern works. But most of them are too good for the Tate Modern which specialises in spectacular rubbish mainly - with occasional pools of really good pieces in their collection. And even though I walk past Tate Britain regularly on my way to work meetings, I rarely ever go in. In fact, I haven't been since their Hogarth Exhibition, almost four years ago - except for stopping in to use their loo.

Since we currently have a visitor, I can use this as an excuse to do the tourist thing. He's never been to Tate Britain and I'd been meaning to go since they re-organised their collection of Pre-Raphaelite works. But somehow we ended up in the Romantics section which was being billed as a new exhibition- an easy to mistake to make, since I tend to view the style of pre-raphaelite art as romantic.

But no, Romantics at the Tate means Turner and associated artists. Which I had forgotten. Which put me in a very bad mood.

Confession time: I hate Turner

Turner is one of two British artists whom the Brits hold most dear. Him and Constable. Whom I also hate. To me they produce stuff like a camera with a white balance gone horribly wrong. I hate Constable's speckiness and cutesyness. I hate Turners smudgy figures and white shwooshiness.(You can see a whole bunch of that here, if you must) I can't really explain quite why I hate them so much. Or rather, I can explain why I don't like them. Maybe the hate seems to spring mostly from the fact that I just don't get them or why they're so loved. And perhaps after having lived in a country for so long and just not getting why everyone else loves them but I think they're rubbish, it makes me hate them. It's a sign that no matter how much I acculturate, I can never truly fit in.

It's not that I hate all British painters. Not at all. I can wander round Tate Britain and find much to admire and some to love. But not Turner and not Constable. Blechhh.

And I'm afraid I didn't hold back. I grumbled about Turner and demanded that we move on. People looked at me like I had spit on the Queen. Except that there are some republicans in the UK and people who hate the monarchy, but it seems that everybody loves Turner.

Wyeth

Some things go both ways. I've generally found that Brits don't like the works of Andrew Wyeth who I think is a genius.

The monkey and the cat

The monkey and the cat, originally uploaded by London looks.

Today I had to go to Birmingham for work. I hadn't been in ages. I left the event I was speaking at early, skipping the final plenary after I did my last gig.

It was understood that I needed to get back to my very young son. But really, I wanted to make sure I had time to go to the Birmingham Museum, which was located tantalisingly near the event, so I could see this painting before I headed back to London.

I don't know why, but this is one of my favorite paintings. It's really rubbish, though. Apparently, it's taken from a French fable in which a monkey wants some roasting chestnuts and manages to convince the cat to singe his paws getting the chestnuts from the burning embers.

I asked one of the attendants if I could take a picture. He told me that normally you're supposed to have special permission, but if I was only taking one picture that was ok.

At the National Gallery, here in London, you can get any print in the whole museum printed out for you specially while you wait - in a number of superb quality expensive sizes. So if you have weird tastes in art, you don't have to just be satisfied with the usual posters of Van Goghs and Monets. The National Gallery was the first museum in the world to have this on offer.

I really like the Spanish painter Zurburan and his creepy religious pictures. I remember seeing his St. Margaret and thinking "I'd really like to have a copy of this, but this will never be in the poster bin in the gift shop. Wouldn't it be awesome if they had a printer that could just do whatever you want?" And when we went to the gift shop they did have it! How cool is that? I have St Margaret framed above the kitchen table.

It kinda reminds me of the time I wanted a wine rack and I had to go to the dump to get rid of some stuff and thought - wouldn't it be great if somebody was throwing away a wine rack and we got it. And sure enough, the guy next to us was throwing away a wine rack and I made my husband ask him for it and we use to this day to store wine and two liter bottles of lemonade.

I'd pay stupid prices to get a good quality print of the Monkey and the Cat.

Is this the sort of rubbish...

....that passes for art these days?




South Bank, London near Waterloo Station

Hogarthian

On Friday, the Vol-in-Law and I went to see the Hogarth exhibit at the Tate Britain. It'll be on for almost another month, but judging by the crowds on a wet, non-holiday, Friday afternoon, you might be well advised to go before the last weekend it's open.

William Hogarth is often remembered as a cartoonist, a spoofer of London life, using charactitures and copper plate etchings to jab at the depravity of the city. He's famous for The Harlot's Progress (a sweet country lass comes to London, is corrupted, becomes a prostitute, catches the pox and dies) and The Rake's Progress (a young country gentleman comes into his fortune, goes to London, becomes depraved, loses his money and ends up in a lunatic asylum) and etchings like Gin Lane. But Hogarth was also a splendid portraitist and painter of historical scenes and the street scene of London, too. (Like The Shrimp Girl - below).



Hogarth is often remembered as a moralist - capturing the inevitability of decline once one has partaken of sin. But like many moralists, he seemed to be praising virtue in the abstract but found it dull in practice. Hence, many of his images are interesting because they revel in the depravity - and his "secret" attraction to the slimy underbelly of London becomes all to readily apparent. And despite highlighting London's many faults, you can see he loved the city - just like I have oft found myself excited by my return to the city - "Ahhh, London - welcome me back into your loving arms, ya dirty old whore."

The exhibit itself was fantastic and seemed to capture the breadth of Hogarth's work in room after room. (In contrast to another exhibit currently on - Renoir's Landscapes which was so brief it seemed a bit of an expensive cheek). In fact, there was so much, I really couldn't take it all in - particulary because you actually need to stop and take in the rich detail of his work.

Hogarth was particularly obsessed by the fallen woman - and I felt rather conspicuous with my pregnant belly, especially since I have just taken off my wedding ring (it still fits, but it's a little tight now and I have a fear of having to cut it off should my hands swell more).

Since visiting the exhibit - the Vol-in-Law has been describing things as Hogarthian. For example, I tried on a rather unfortunate shade of lipstick yesterday - which the ViL said made me look "a bit Hogarthian" - and I don't think he meant the country lass before the fall or the earthy vibrancy of the shrimp girl, above.