Island life

I came across these paintings by Paul Gauguin today in a second-hand book shop, and realised they hold some really relevant themes in relation to my current work. Portraying native Tahitian's in an almost prelapsarian state, they were the work of a man idealising and romanticising a past that had ceased to be, Tahiti long being a French colony by the time he made his visits. His fascination with their 'primitive' nature and an almost mythologised vision of semi-naked women offering forward fruit and reclining in the exotic landscapes are typical of an imperialistic West, and Gauguin was keen to build upon the myth, presenting these images as if they were treasures and truths of an undiscovered land. The curator of the forthcoming retrospective of his work at Tate Modern (the first in 50 years in Britain) has even gone as far as to say the relationship he had with his models was exploitative, forming sensationalist visions of Tahitian life to shock and play up to people's prejudices.

His intentions in leaving Europe for Tahiti were, reportedly to remove himself from European civilisation, with which he had grown increasingly frustrated, mainly due to his lack of recognition. He was in search of a tropical paradise, an escape from what the Western world considered civilised, and these paintings are a product of that very romanticisation.

Some thoughts

I went to the Tate today to see the Chris Ofili exhibition and was largely impressed, his paintings that chart the post-colonial black experience are bold, colourful, and often deliver powerful messages whilst still being concerned with the formal and material qualities of his mixed media approach (an early feature of his work was the use of elephant dung). Whilst meandering around before entering the exhibition I came across a room of paintings by an old favourite of mine, James Abbott McNeil Whistler, paintings which I had not realised had been on show. As well as inspiring a certain sense of awe of his beautiful use of paint, it got me thinking about one of his key concerns, that of 'art for art's sake'. It's true, art can have a message or a concept behind it, but at the end of the day is it not its sole purpose to be an object of aesthetic desire? Ofili's work, in my mind, addresses this dilemma, holding a mirror up to a certain part of society whilst still being beautifully and intricately crafted.

The Upper Room installation, a series of thirteen paintings installed in a purpse-built wooden 'chapel' is a perfect example of how Ofili's work is inherent in references and contexts - the thirteen paintings are based on a screen print by Andy Warhol of a monkey holding a chalice and their installation draws comparison wit the Rothko Chapel, placing them in a long line of painting tradition, yet also suggesting such religious connotations as the Last Supper and the Hindu god Hanuman - whilst at the same time being a shrine to the power of painting itself, reminding us that art needs not rely on the footnotes explaining every last shred of context in a desperate attempt for us to 'understand' it. For certain, these footnotes can exist, and it is important that a work of art is aware of and engages with the history it is a part of, but for it to stand alone in its own right is what makes it truly worthy.

For the love of god

This week has been a very busy week with lots of gallery visits and the exhausting Frieze Art Fair all taken in. Yesterday, amongst other shows, I went to see the Damien Hirst exhibition at the Wallace Collection. I have to say I was highly sceptical, not being the biggest fan of Hirst's past work. The show consists of about twenty paintings based around the theme of death (nothing new, then) that have been painted by the artist's own hand, a noted departure from his Factory-style assistant-produced artworks of old. The first thing to comment on, an unavoidable talking point, is the location of the show. The Wallace Collection is a family collection of mostly 15th and 16th century oil paintings and artefacts, and for Hirst to assume he has the right to show his work there (he funded the show himself, to the tune of £250,000...) is quite insulting, to be honest. Fair enough, he has generated much interest and probably increased the visitor count ten fold, but his paintings are just so incongruous and completely at odds with the many other works of art that the Collection houses that it all feels a bit... distasteful.

Now, the paintings themselves. To say they are an homage to Francis Bacon is an understatement: large scale paintings in prussian blue covered in geometric lines, including a couple of triptychs, featuring such symbols of death as the skull and a lemon. Yes, a lemon. The tour guide, who was doing her best to convince us of a great depth of meaning and significance to these paintings, duly informed us that Hirst intended the lemon as a symbol of death, despite the fact that historically the closest a lemon has come to being a symbol of anything is the inclusion of lemon trees in paintings of the Virgin Mary. There was more, of course. He also included spots in many of the paintings, apparently signifying the death of his old practice (his spot paintings are somewhat of a trademark) and the next stage in his artistic career. In other words, he has realised that the spot paintings and the diamond encrusted skull were hollow and meaningless and has decided to try his hand at the lonely, romantic painter locked away in his studio image. Perhaps this would be ok, were the paintings not so two dimensional and repetitive. Each one feels like a reworking of the last, as if he's taken four elements and tried to configure the most number of ways of composing them possible.

Before heading over to the exhibition a friend and I happened to bump into Adrian Searles, chief art critic at The Guardian who we'd seen take part in a debate at Frieze. He was friendly and had time for conversation, and even recommended a show. This show was by Sarah Lucas, who along with Hirst came to prominence in the 90s as part of the famed YBAs. The contrast is telling: hers, held in a disused shop in Dover Street, was original, intriguing, and held your interest as you took in the four floors worth of art. Hirst's? Well, I think I've made my feelings clear. "Don't get sucked in by Damien" were Searles' parting words. Needless to say, I didn't.