Lille Skak

Another art related rant.

I am a recent art history graduate. Towards the end of my last academic year I had thought that my niche could be finding ways of making contemporary art more accessible to the general public. I spent four years studying art and it occurred to me on a few occasions how very valuable the works of past masters are in comparison to how very invaluable the works of today’s aspiring young artists are proving themselves to be. I have had one too many conversations with not only peers and friends but with my art teachers about the state of modern art and how it simply doesn’t appeal to anyone apart from us few devotees. Not that those devoted to art are a minority, but if you consider the mass portion of the general public who abhor to the very idea of contemporary painting, sculpture, music or anything else mildly creative it certainly points towards a gap in the art world, a gap which I would so love to see bridged.

I was rejected by an arts academy to undertake an MA in which I wanted to attempt to bridge that gap. Damn shame I think, that it isn’t at the forefront of the art world’s mind to want to encourage more people to engage with the arts.

However, recently on scrolling through BBC iplayer I stumbled across a new show, School of Saatchi, which is basically X Factor for the contemporary art scene. In two minds about the very premise of the program I tried to keep an open mind, after all this show is an attempt at bridging that ever-growing gap and Matthew Collings is on the judging panel and he is well good.

For a society that revels in all things celebrity the show does a nice job of explaining the role of the contemporary artist as some sort of rock star. With the help of those tedious images of Marcel Duchamp’s urinal and Damien Hirst’s shark, School of Saatchi begins to take the shape of so many other ‘art shows’. Giving over to scenes of prospective competitors being questioned about their work, needless to say disinteresting questions such as “why is this art” meet uninspired answers by underprepared candidates “why is anything art”…good one. The candidates are also a little repelling as so many of them hold resonance to those stereotypical art students who we all love to hate. There’s the smarmy conceptual artist who claims that he doesn’t believe that art should be entertaining and the girl with a 20s bob and an oh so Scandinavian street style whose cheeky disposition and her piece which saw her hang a whistle off a door handle actually won her a place in the final six.

It has to be said that there’s only been one episode and with the promise of some Martin Creed action in next week’s show I am interested to see what these aspiring creatives actually manage to produce as I am an optimist and a lover of conceptual art. Perhaps School of Saatchi will convert a few haters purely due to the format of the show, after all ‘our Tracey’ is far more compelling than that Cheryl Cole.

Happiness.

Happiness is lying on my white cotton sheets listening to Ray LaMontagne and staring out of the window on to the quickly darkened winter sky. A text from a faraway friend sending future wishes, wishes that see us reunited. An ever-present thought of that one person who makes you laugh and smile like there’s nothing but those moments spent together. Sharing private jokes, jokes which exist only in your universe; your galaxy of silliness, fondness and passion. Something that brings tears to your eyes out of sheer pleasance and when isn’t there makes you grasp in longing onto those remaining feelings.

There are certain people in our lives who we can’t live without. Those people in my life are scattered across the globe. It makes them and us who we are. Together we are an unbreakable force and apart we are whispers of pure joy that every now and then show themselves in the form of a phrase, a song or a smell. Those memories keep us going when nothing seems worthwhile.

I always had an imagination that ran like streaming ribbons, unravelling forever unveiling unspeakably beautiful colours. When I was about fifteen I invented a flat, I invented furniture (bought from numerous fictional flea markets) and I painted, decorated and DIYed my flat into perfection. When I loved somebody I put them in my bedroom, decorated with 1940s mirrors and turquoise cupboards with tassel handles embellished with crystal. My apartment still exists in my head; it’s still real to me and it reappears whenever I am overcome with contentment. I put my friends in there who I don’t get to see very often and it serves me with the upmost comfort.

Sadness is knowing that those people who drink rose tea and eat freshly baked canolis in my imaginary home aren’t really as close as they feel in my thoughts. Knowing that it will be a long time before I see them again and knowing that when I do I will need so much more time with them then I can have.

Artist Michael Landy destroyed everything he owned, claiming that it isn’t those material things that make us. If I didn’t have those letters and postcards, teacups and fortune tellers sent and handed to me by those I love on their various departures from wherever we were, I think I would find those sad days more devastating than my hormones already force them to be. Yet when I am happy, as I am right now it’s those memories and thoughts and feelings that keep me from weeping into my mismatching pillowcases. I sit up at the table in my pale blue and white kitchen and take a good look around, because wherever I am and whoever I’m with, I can be at home in my head with whoever I want at the drop of a hat, or the flick of a switch or if I just close my eyes and smile.

Love is.

Love is holding a warm mug of tea in two cupped palms. Listening to the rain and deciding to stay in with your own company. Trying to make words paint pictures in your favourite hues.