I went to Dover Street Market a few weeks ago for my first time. By the time I got to the sixth floor all I could think about was running away screaming or getting sick in the nearest loo. It was the size zero male with moustache and gold hotpants that finally did it. Michael had to bundle me into the lift and whisk me off to the nearest Pret for an elderflower cordial reviver. Sometimes I have that reaction to arty things.
Something similar happened at the Goldsmith’s art college degree show last weekend. The thing is, I love art. I love looking at it, absorbing ideas, imagining the artists’ thought processes, discovering new galleries and of course sipping free wine and spotting celebs at openings... It’s just that when I’m around it too long, and it no longer makes sense to my (I must admit, largely logical) brain, my body starts rejecting it, and goes into convulsions.
We’d spent the morning in Blackheath. What a revelation. Lovely cute country village, huge expanses of green space, kind of reminded us of America in a weird way. Found an amazing foodie shop/cafe called Hand Made. Tried to walk past it but the pork pies looked so good we had to go in and eat one. Later, we went back for coffee and a most spectacular and not too almondy pear and almond tart.
In our sugary caffeiney haze, we thought we’d walk to Goldsmiths and see the legendary breeding ground of so many bands, artists and other such attention seekers. Well-heeled became down-at-heel as we walked westwards through Lewisham and New Cross and landed at the college. Were delighted to find that the degree show was on and gawped our way through room after room of increasing bizarreness.
So incredibly awkward having to look at the art while the artist slouches beside it. There’s just nothing you can do to make it ok. Without any explanations of (what the bloody hell) this (goldfish swimming in a tank surrounded by four TVs) piece is about, you’re forced to find the right balance of non-flippant facial expression, polite interest and cool dissinterest before walking slowly onto the next one. Do you ignore them? Do you smile at them? Do you pretend you’re a crusty art critic and take notes? Do you ask them what it’s about or do you nod knowingly?
If you’re me, you take pictures when no-one’s looking.
Our favourite was the cassette recorders secretly recording you talking and playing it back to you in bizarre loops. Michael played his latest favourite song, Music to Watch Girls By, through the mic and a few seconds later we had Andy Williams singing the girls watch the boys watch the girls watch the boys back to us over and over again. Fabulous.
We saw a film of various mouths vomiting back up various coloured liquids. We saw a film of a guy with four plates stuck to his arm dancing around topless. We saw giant knitted scarves (quite nice). We saw a dressing up room full of dragged up art students. We saw another topless man in a clown wig blowing bubbles. We saw £20 notes in bottles of formaldehyde. If anything’s going to wake up your sleepy office-numbed brain it’s this show.
Several floors later though and I was getting the shakes and the convulsions were threatening. Thank god for the guy who had bought a Jake and Dinos Chapman picture and stuck it to a bucking bronco type ride. I had a go and felt much better after it. At least I was allowed to laugh and didn’t have keep my face in a permanent state of painful ponderousness and pretend understanding.
The tapes, the bronco ride and the incredible bedroom filled with long red hair by ‘Miss Davinia Robinson’ (“That’s how our house would look if I didn’t hoover it,” said Michael) were the only pieces that made me go ‘wow’. Oh and a kind of odd faux office environment that made me smile. The rest just seemed a bit, yeah whatever. What’s new? I kept wondering. What’s really breaking boundaries? Hair room aside, I just couldn’t find it.
Still, made it out in one piece, without getting sick or running away and really really enjoyed it. I had to slap myself and realise that it’s a privilege to see fresh, cutting-edge art in one of the most arty capitals (if not, the) in the world.
Then back to our very own arty corner of London on our smashing new airy East London Line. (I’m worried they’re going to close it down soon when they realise how empty their shiny new toy is all the time.) Yet another great day out with more great finds. Once again, London displays its unfathomable depths.
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