I've always been fascinated by those explanatory panels beside artworks in galleries. When I was younger I liked landscapes. I liked pictures of mountains, lakes, rivers, villages, and cottage gardens. I was keen on animals too - even fields of cows held my interest - but people bored me. I used to avoid the halls of stuffy portraits of primped up posers in dark suits and darker oils, or (less frequently) women in layers of frills and nonsense, always with sour expressions and sallow complexions.
But at least I knew what they were. The abstract art confused me. People didn't have multiple noses and dozens of eyes; they weren't made out of cubes. I was completely impervious to wibbly blue lines on yellow backgrounds, or random dots and geometric shapes. Surely, if you had to describe and explain it; it wasn't art.
And then I began to understand how words can narrate more intimate pictures than paint or pencil, and I began to appreciate the fine art of criticism. Analogies are drawn and connections made. I don't believe a picture is worth a thousand words - I feel that words and pictures can exist harmoniously, each adding value to the other. Incidentally, the BBC TV programme Words and Pictures began the year I was born, was a feature of my childhood education, and my introduction to the magnificent (Sir) Tony Robinson - long before he was Baldrick.
At one point I wanted to be a curator. I wanted to be the person who put exhibitions together and wrote the blurb that went with them. What a wonderful creative outlet, I thought. I later discovered that the job was far more orientated towards filling in forms, applying for grants and fundraising, than being creative with writing and interpretation, so I gave up on that idea. I do, however, retain the greatest respect for those who provide the words for those little white cards, which in turn provide the insight into a piece of otherwise indecipherable art.
For example, this piece of art is made from a wood table, chewing gum and resin cast. It is an oval mosaic of a bearded bloke, with a slightly unusual back board. It is called Egghead and it is by Sean Healey. It is okay, but I wasn't particularly drawn to it.
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| Egghead by Sean Healey |
And then I read the reasoning, which explains that the cameo is a portrait of Melville Dewey, inventor of the Dewey decimal system used to classify books and other publications. It is constructed from over fifty pieces of chewing gum, chewed by Healey and his son and coated in resin. These fragments of the whole are then placed on the bottom of a repurposed school library table. The curator elucidates that the artwork "explores the rationales of social power structures. Healey's process-orientated installation work is infused by pop culture and the urban environment." He or she adds that the materials used and the placement thereof is "a nod to youthful defiance yet ironically requires much strategy and intelligence".
Suddenly I like the piece more, and have a greater appreciation for its subversive message and its ironic intent. Without these words, I would not have recognised the full implications of the work. So, do we need these statements to justify the art? Or is it mere pretension and aggrandisment? What do you think?
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| Detail of Egghead by Sean Healy |
