But arts and crafts? Just not my thing.
Now, when I look back on my early years of artistic disinterest, I wonder if I missed something fundamental and if some basic part of my visual brain just never got activated. To this day I have neither the inclination nor the ability to pick up a paintbrush or design a frock or draw a convincing stick figure self portrait. The only time I can ever imagine throwing a pot is in a heated argument. Yet, somewhat ironically, one of my most favourite things to do is potter around galleries. And some of my favourite travelling memories involve doing just that.
One of my first memories of London was my friend Kyle taking me, in my jetlag haze, to the Tate Modern and to The Rothko Room - a whole room of reds and purples and blacks and oranges, almost imperceptivity seeping into each other. It’s mesmerizing. There is just something so soothing and contemplative about Rothko’s work. It feels familiar, yet unknown, like an idea that defies articulation.
However, listening to an amateur like me describe Rothko is probably like listening to your brother’s new girlfriend telling you about the dream she had last night (BOR-ING). Let’s just say Rothko’s work is visceral, which means that it is better experienced than read about. So I’ll stop now and just recommend you check it out yourself.
Visiting The Rothko Room became a bit of a ritual for me. The perfect antidote to a busy London week and a busy head. Bliss.
London has arguably some of the world’s most impressive galleries - and most of them are free. The great thing about free galleries is that you can just pop in and visit when you are in the neighbourhood. Just stop off for a quick hello to the Turners at the Tate, the reclining nudes at the National Gallery, the portraits of Henry the 8th wives at the Portrait Gallery, pre-decapitation.
After work and on the weekends, gallery hopping became a bit of an obsession for me. I would charge myself up on coffee, sink into a pair of headsets and listen to the headset man or woman comment on Turner’s revolutionary use of colour (- hmmmm) or how Granach’s representation of Venus differs so greatly from Botticelli’s (- so true) or how Lapis Lazu was made from ultramarine and very expensive (- why thank you head set man, I did not know that).
You also have to love the pulling power of big cities like London when it comes to attracting major exhibitions. Well, love them when you are living in a big city, and feel a little resentful when you are not. Henry Moore at Kew Gardens, From Russia at the Academy, Antony Gormley at The Hayward and a humble little collection of Edward Hopper sketches at the British Museum were particular joys.
Galleries, for me, are everything that they are supposed to be; educational, inspirational and at times disturbing. In terms of the education, I am forever in debt to the galleries of London (and Europe) for my knowledge of the following words; diptych, exhume, pieta, sable, flanked. In terms of the inspiration, please refer to my previous rant on Rothko. And in terms of the disturbing, I remember a grey day in Berlin walking back to the hostel in 4 degree temperature after seeing a Thomas Demand exhibition at the Nationalgalerie. A dark and cold day for me. Both literally and metaphorically. Let’s talk about something else.
But, for me, more than being educational, or inspiring, or disturbing, galleries are just kind of fun. A playground. An intimate space where the imagination can cuddle up. I feel like I am both entirely at pleasure’s mercy and in the middle of a really good conversation. And maybe because I am so very bad at art (and crafts and design), I am in such awe of it. And because I have not even the mildest of hopes or aspirations to create any art myself, I can turn the inner critic off. And just enjoy it.
I met a guy once who plans his trips around great rock climbs and I know a couple whose holidays are all about the food. And, although it was not my intention, I think gallery hopping has become a bit of a travel theme for me.
Berlin, I’ve already mentioned, the Berliners know not only know how to put good art in their galleries but also in their bars and playgrounds and on the footpaths (ich liebe Berlin). I have also been to some amazing galleries in places I didn’t quite expect; I spent Christmas Day at the Beyeler Foundation in Basel, Switzerland and set the alarm of getting up close looking at brushstrokes and returned at Easter and visited the Tinguely Museum (Tinguely makes these huge rattling machine sculptures which are the size of trucks and just as noisy. They are great. ) And then there was a great weekend spent in Prague during the Biennale. And an amazing Arts and Craft exhibition in Edinburgh during the festival. And a sneaky few days of work to go to Melbourne to see the Tim Burton exhibition. ( Ok - I’ll stop. I am just showing off).
But I guess when it comes to those big impressive European galleries you just can’t beat Paris. Oh Paris. Try as I did not to be seduced by your accent, your little metro signs and your lingerie store owners who can pick your bra size even while you still have on your winter coat, I was impressed, I am impressed. Oh Paris- you had me at bonjour.
The first time I went to Paris it was the beginning of January. I went to Musee Rodin and saw his statues silhouette against grey skies and bare trees. The weather was grey and cold but I felt the exact opposite. The kissing, the thinking… But let’s get back to the art.
Six months later, I returned. Paris was warm and sunny and in the midst of Euro Cup fever. I only had a few days and was determined to see as much art as possible. I literally dropped off my bags at the hotel and set off to the Pompidou Centre. And straight up the bubble-wrap like escalator to Level Five. And there they were…a line up of the who’s who of 2Oth art– Matisse – Wow, Marden- Wow, Derain- WOW. And then there was this one piece of sculpture that just took my breath away. I love it with my whole being and to tell you the truth I can’t explain why, which is how I know it is true love. Pompidou said of the artist ‘he overcomes the coldness and rigidity of metal to endow it with an unexpected lightness, suppleness and immateriality’. Well said Mr Pompidou.
The next day I went to the Musee D’orsay, which made quite an impression (Pardon my dreadful art puns). I saw the world’s best collection of paintings and sketches by Monet and Manet and Degas and all the rest of the gang. I love all those paintings, and remembering that before they became calendars and jigsaw puzzles, they were controversial and ground breaking. I have a particular soft spot for Van Gough, although (or maybe because) his paintings remind me of blinding and unbearable loneliness.
And then the next day I visited the Musee de l’orangerie on recommendation from my friend Beth. The ‘Sistine Chapel of Impressionism’ it houses Monet’s Waterlilies Series. And it is beautiful. Monet seems like he was the sanest out of all those painters, I suspect it must have had something to do with the fresh air.
I also did a token quick loop of the Louvre ( Mona Lisa –Tick Venus de Milio –fifty million American tourist –tick) on the last day and exhausted and saturated with art got the train back to Switzerland.
That night, wrapped up in warm arms, I dreamt of museum spaces and rows and rows colourful artworks. Happy Dreams. Happy Times.
And here is the thing -while my photos are still remarkably average, and I remain completely uninterested in doing a life drawing class, there is something a little different about me. I have ditched my black wallet for a purple and pink one. I take a little bit more care when arranging flowers and aligning the postcards on the back of my wardrobe. My range of eye shadow colours have broadened.
And I wonder if a little part of my visual brain, which has lain dormant throughout the best of the last thirty odd years, is beginning to rumble.
Happy Colouring People.
True Love
