Art

Book review: A Humument

A Humument: A Treated Victorian Novel (Final Edition) by Tom Phillips.
My rating: five stars.

Writing in books is not a big thing. I’ve got copies of texts from my schooldays where I’ve underlined portentous encounters, highlighted exam-worthy tidbits and scrawled “what the shit?” more than once.

Obviously this is a bit more involved than that.

It’s not something I do any more, largely because I’m not 15 any more. Tom Phillips didn’t get the memo about stopping, though, and the result is a singular piece of art which takes the reader on a journey through art and opera, though still features the odd cock-and-balls graffito.

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2020 consumption: a look at some stuff I liked

It’s that time again? Shit.

I mean…

I suppose this year hasn’t exactly been kind to my interpretation of, y’know, time, so it’s not a surprise that this has crept up on me. Anyway, for the benefit of me and the dick-pill spambots that flood my comments section, I guess it’s time to chunk out some words about things I liked this year.

As ever, I’m a bit uncertain as to why I do this. It feels like a bit of an indulgence, but I suppose it does allow me a bit of breathing space to look back at the year through the prism of entertainment and formulate some thoughts about it. Whether they’re any good is still up for debate, but before we get too deep in the ontological weeds, let’s get on with it.

Previous versions are here, here, herehere, here, here and here if you need an introduction.

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Book review: Modernists & Mavericks: Bacon, Freud, Hockney and the London Painters

Modernists & Mavericks: Bacon, Freud, Hockney and the London Painters.Modernists & Mavericks: Bacon, Freud, Hockney and the London Painters by Martin Gayford.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars.

So hey, here’s an idea for a book: a history of artists from a certain place, and a certain time. Let’s call them London Painters and bung them together, even though there’s little to link them stylistically, or even philosophically.

Sounds like a hiding to nowhere, right?
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Book review: Acute Misfortune: The Life and Death of Adam Cullen

Acute Misfortune: The Life and Death of Adam Cullen.Acute Misfortune: The Life and Death of Adam Cullen by Erik Jensen.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars.

I’d known who Adam Cullen was from the papers rather than his art, at least initially. He was the eminently quotable prick who had issues with his mum, and was a bit of a lair, given to creating sculptures out of random shit, and artwork that was distinguished from that of a truculent kid by dint of the violence bubbling underneath it.

Actor, artist and arsehole.

I’d seen his Archibald winners (and non-starters), but hearing him constantly referred to as an enfant terrible or similar made me a bit leery of learning more. And then he died, and at least some of the obits made me think there might be a bit more to the story. (more…)

Book review: Seven Days In The Art World

Seven Days In The Art World.Seven Days In The Art World by Sarah Thornton.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars.

First things first. This book is presented almost as a travelogue – a kind of Contiki holiday through the upper-end of the art world. It takes the reader on a trip behind the velvet rope to check out several aspects of the art life – an auction; a crit session; an art fair; a magazine; a studio visit and a Biennale. It could, were I uncharitable, seem a bit on the nose – a bit of an obvious structure. I mean, it’s a pretty blatant conceit.

If you’ve gotta pick a schtick, make it a GREAT one.

But it’s about the art world. Isn’t that the point? 
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2019 consumption: a look at some stuff I liked

So here we are again.

I remember not to answer the phone, though.

Once more, it’s the point of the year where I write a usually-lengthy post about the things I’ve enjoyed this year. I write a bunch of stuff about the cultural bits and pieces I’ve consumed through the year and figure out what was good and what wasn’t, in the hope of providing something of a portrait of my entertainment consumption over the past twelve months.

Previous versions are here, herehere, here, here and here if you need an introduction.
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2018 consumption: a look at some stuff I liked

Well shit.

I guess we’ve reached the point where, traditionally, I put up a post detailing what it is that’s taken my fancy in 2018. It’s become a bit of an annual thing, and far be it from me to disappoint the couple (?) of people who might nose through this thing in its entirety. So here we are: my wrap up of what’s been taking up my time.

Relatively accurate, though he swims more than I do.

Previous versions are herehere, here, here and here if you need an introduction.
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2016 consumption: a look at some stuff I liked

WELL HERE IT IS. Once more it’s time for a recap on what I did during the year, stuffwise. Previous versions are here, here and here, if you need an origin story.

Once more, I’m unsure who would actually read this all the way through, given the self-indulgence herein, but don’t worry – I’ve found an image that reflects both the world’s 2016 and my thoughts on writing the thing.

giphy

Take that, ya lousy fuckin’ year. And you too, ya lousy fuckin’ typing guy.

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Marina Abramović: In Residence – again

(You can read about my first visit to this event here. Once more, this is part of my 750words process.)

I returned today to Marina Abramović: In Residence, at Wharf 2/3 in Sydney. I visited earlier in the week and wanted to see whether my experience there – something I’d written about, also – was going to be different this time. Could it be repeated, or was it a one-time-only deal? Part of me wanted to feel more than I did the first time, and part of me was greedy to have another go, because I wondered how long it might be before I could do something similar.

(This, of course, is a silly thought: it appears Abramović’s goal with her Method is to enable the exercises to be done without her. This is something with a life of its own, now.)

The lines were longer this time. I arrived the same time as my previous visit, but it seemed to take longer to get inside. (I was through the door at roughly the same time as the first visit, though, so I suppose it all evens out.) The usual conversations of arty bent continued behind me, as before, though I wasn’t the only solo visitor this time; in front of me, a girl peered at the world through defensive Prada shades, her face occluded.

I spotted Abramović herself, leading an older lady into the experience. The chatterers missed it. She smiled and seemed to float, more than walk, though that could be the influence of her enormous, gazing portrait at the head of the line: when presented with the real person after so much image, there’s bound to be a little feeling of unreality. (more…)