KAREN: SADDLES AND PARIS
I finally saw the Karen Kilimnik exhibition last week at the Serpentine Gallery. It was the first time I’d seen her work in real life, and I was suitably impressed and intrigued by it.
At first glance, I was underwhelmed. I saw the glitter and thought, "oh no, not another knowingly kitsch artist". I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, and was able to enjoy the interiors of the rooms and how they had been transformed. It has given me ideas on how I can change the space I might be given for my degree show. I was particularly interested in her final room, the pink room. It was a candy coloured room, who’s walls were filled with white, inlayed columns and cornicing The only painting in the space was of a room that was almost identical to the one in which it appeared. Simple, vaguely funny perhaps, but interesting in terms of the relationship between the painting and the environment in which it finds itself. It made me feel a little awkard, and so I left through the curtains to my right.
It sounds dramatic, and now I look back to last week, I can’t quite remember why I said this, but I distinctly remember saying that the exhibition made me remember why I wanted to be an artist. I was impressed with the way in which the Serpentine had produced a £1 playing card ‘catalogue’, and was amused by the props and techniques she had used that seem so alien to most gallery contexts. The feeling has faded somewhat. I don’t think this is a bad thing. At least I know I can still feel it, no matter how fleetingly. I read the writings of some London-based art critics, and wonder how they can get out of bed in the morning; they seem so jaded. So achingly knowing. Perhaps critics should only have a five year life span..But that would have to make it a clearly defined profession in the first place. I suppose we are all critics. Some of us just get paid to do it.
I feel that was an extremely naff last sentence.
