I’ve dedicated this blog to free art exhibitions. At around £13, the cost of a major art exhibition in London isn’t exactly unaffordable to me – but as a young(ish) person living in one of the world’s most expensive cities, having wisely chosen a notoriously low-paid line of work and served myself up a solid helping of student debt, it’s not high on my list of things I can spend money on without feeling, well, a bit guilty. I’d certainly find it hard to justify visiting more than one in a weekend, which isn’t really practical when you’re trying to write a regular (well, at least semi-regular) blog. And as I’m (to my great regret) only one person, it provides an easy way to filter down the hundreds of art shows going on every week into the ones I actually want to write about.
But what if art was cheaper? I recently spent a few days in Munich, and in between ingesting beers the size of my head and marvelling at the fact that people can actually style out lederhosen and dirndls as viable casual outfit options, I visited the Pinakothek der Moderne (above) – the city’s largest modern art and design museum. Its permanent collection houses a huge range of paintings from the early twentieth century onwards, including the likes of Picasso, Paul Klee and Otto Dix, and as a fan of inter-war debauchery I was extremely pleased to see a whole room dedicated to Max Beckmann’s dark, German Expressionist portraits of sinister, heavy-browed good-time girls, masked figures and people looking bored at parties. Exhibitions currently include Creating Realities, a show about the relationship between cinema and art including the disconcerting Sleepwalker by UK artist Clement Page; and a touching exhibition of photography by Nicholas Nixon entitled The Brown Sisters. 40 Jahre, showing photographs of the artist’s wife and her sisters taken every year on the same day for 40 years. There’s also an exhibition of work inspired by El Greco, from the likes of Kandinsky and Adolf Erbsloh, as well as a showcase of modern furniture design.
Postcards from the exhibition – Frank Moon (left) and Ricki Hall
As you may gather from the date of my last post, I’ve been off the blogging boil for quite some time. Excuses include abandoning the life of a nomadic freelancer for that of a sulky one-hour-plus commuter who could no longer work from 7.30am until 12, go to a gallery when there’s no-one but a few trendy pensioners hanging around and be back at your desk for the 3pm until whenever-you’ve-done-enough-work-to-silence-the-voice-in -your-head-that-says-working-from-home-isn’t-a-proper-job shift (if it’s in time for the news at 10, you’re having a good day).
I’ve been to so many great art shows in recent months and not found the time to write them up (highlights: Museum of Water at Somerset House, Post Pop: East Meets West at the Saatchi, and Grayson Perry’s Who Are You? at the National Gallery) but I promised myself that this year I would force myself to stop being boring at the weekends and get back into doing creative things, so here we go. If you can’t post opinions no-one asked for on the internet in 2015, when can you? And frankly, I’ve run out of things to watch on Netflix.
Anyway, I went to an exhibition called Beard at Somerset House. There were a lot of guys walking around it in various levels of hirsutism, each expressing a corresponding degree of woeful inadequacy. Because the beards on display – photographed by Brock Elbank – were, frankly, magnificent. (If you don’t like that adjective, there are a whole host of others on allaboutbeards.org’s gallery of featured beards, which for reasons I won’t go into is something of which I am aware. My personal favourite is “Patrick’s picture-perfect beard”. No, wait. “Andy’s awe-inspiring beard”). I can only assume that the other attendees were dedicated pogonophiles. Full disclosure: my boyfriend has a beard.
Don’t be mean to the Tate Modern, or it’ll go and sulk in this puddle again (Rev Stan on Flickr)
Pretty big, pretty new and pretty popular, the Tate Modern is often derided by actual-art-fans as somewhere which is too well-known, too much of a tourist attraction, too full of schoolkids thundering around and raucously lol-ing at all the pieces with bums and boobs. Too accessible to the everyday oik who finds themselves on the South bank with half an hour to spare. If private galleries are an exclusive, prosecco-free soiree in the Kensington Roof Gardens (YES, THIS IS THE POSHEST PLACE I KNOW), then the Tate Modern is a can of K Cider in the overgrown, woodsy bit at the back of Hyde Park.
But guys, this is ok! Sometimes stuff that loads of people like is – believe it or not – GOOD! I went there last weekend, for the first time since I was a country-bumph 19-year-old up in London on a kid’s day travelcard and thinking that this was the height of capital city cool. It wasn’t, and still isn’t (the postcode doesn’t begin with the letters EC, go figure), but here are some reasons why it is a nice place to hang about for a bit. You know, even if it’s NOT raining.