Ageing relatives, more bally fairies and how to look at art.
This morning I stood at 7 AM in my newly cleared studio with three clear hours ahead of me. My first thoughts were – what am I doing here, no really, what is it, what is the thing – what is this thing that I am doing? This art – this stuff, me, standing here,what is it?
The past week was spent hosting relatives. During the week we had two instances when we looked at art. At one point we ventured into the Barbara Hepworth sculpture centre, close to home but in another sense, it could be a million miles away. The sculpture centre hosts the big names, the heavyweights of the art world, Gormley, Caro etc. Dropping in for a few days here and there, they are cushioned and cosseted, discreetly hidden from the native villagers nearby. But kindly, and I really do mean kindly, they allow the general public freely to come and enjoy the ever-changing artwork.
Walking through the grounds, my lovely sister launched enthusiastically into her interpretation of the work she saw, (without the deadly baggage of an art education) and when she had run out of steam she asked for affirmation that her approach was ‘right’. A few more learned members of our party suggested that perhaps she ought to buy a book and learn how to look at art. I thought about this – about how her thoughts perhaps were not ‘right’ and how she could learn to make them ‘right’.
Our other art experience was at Mottisfont Abbey where high up in the upper floor of this beautiful old country home an exhibition of flower fairies ran alongside the House of Fairytales show. The flower fairies were truly lovely of course but merely served to remind me of my own flower fairy book as a child in which I had graffitied small flower fairy poos coming out of the unsuspecting flower fairy bottoms. After the flower fairies the work got much more complex, darker of course and absolutely absorbing. Tessa Farmers minute skeletons brandishing swords and riding mischievously on the backs of dragonflies and bumblebees were a wonderful surprise as I have never seen her work in the flesh.
It was at this point that my 87-year-old father (having spent most of the exhibition shuffling from window to window attempting to spot a trout in the Test below) made his critique on the show, in his uniquely raw and rather loud fashion.’ Get me out of here, I’ve seen enough bally fairies to last me all day.’ Age seems to have refined his words into a succinct few with no time wasted on pleasantries or politeness. I’m guessing somehow he doesn’t feel the need to read any books on how to look at art.
