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First thing, a disclaimer: I am in no way qualified to criticize works of art. Beyond a few wasted Saturday morning art classes, I don’t have the faintest idea about how to judge a work of art, or even tell if something is a work of art. I could be looking at an abstract masterpiece by the next Picasso, but to me it would still look like a pile of twigs and crisp packets held together with duck guano. Seriously. Not a clue. What a block of cheese is to music, I am to art. I don’t even know why they let me in the building. Having said that, I think I can tell the difference between something which is enjoyable to look at – something which looks like it should be put on display – and something which looks like it was made by a lower primate with poor hand-eye coordination.
Second thing, an observation: art galleries are surprisingly noisy places. Or at least this one was. Creaky floorboards, chattering tourists, clunky doors, chill-out music blasting from the gift shop and the clamour of visitors in the café. I assumed that I had arrived at happy-hour, although to my disappointment there wasn’t a bar. Sans iPod, I had to tolerate the assault on my earlobes. That’s probably where ‘suffering for art’ comes from. Probably. Anyway, I had to forget about the clatter; I was on a mission to become cultured, and no family with screaming kids and Lithuanian au pairs was going to stand in my way.
Downstairs
The main exhibition space of the gallery was showcasing ‘100 Years of Gifts’, which included abstractionism, impressionism, and every other ‘ism’ you can think of. If I’m honest, pictures of obese octogenarians who decided it was a good idea to photograph themselves in the buff doesn’t really do it for me. Certainly wasn’t 100 years of dieting and exercise. I quickly fled the area for fear of losing my lunch, and moved to the next room. At this point, I was a little crestfallen. My mission to become an art critic was on the rocks, and I clearly wasn’t ‘getting’ any of this stuff. Maybe I should just give up, buy some Dr Pepper and catch the bus home.
Thankfully, the next exhibition ‘Status’ was more my style. It chronicles the styles of artists through the 18th Century – a time when they moved out of their parents’ spare bedrooms and became professionals. It’s an impressive collection that actually shows techniques of light, shadow and colours. I don’t know about you, though, but I prefer landscapes to portraits of Bertie Wooster’s great-great-grandfather and clergymen who look like they took themselves too seriously. Standouts include Hobbema’s A Wooded Landscape, Dujardin’s Landscape with Cattle, and (my favourite) Berchem’s Coastal Scene with Crab Catchers. Hogarth’s ‘four prints of an election’ show that nothing much has changed in British politics, and we have the occasional nipple-slip in Mercier’s The Careless Husband. Overall, it’s worth seeing.
Upstairs
Feeling more confident now, I headed up the stairs to the Burton Gallery, which was split into three sub-exhibitions. The first, ‘People’, was a collection of portraits of various footnotes to history, and is about as exciting as it sounds. The lone exception was a three-dimensional portrait of the Queen (Levine’s Equanimity) whose eyes followed me around the room. The voyeur in me also liked Etty’s The Toilet of Venus, a depiction of the naked Goddess being attended to by six equally naked maids. Feeling as if Her Majesty was judging me, I moved on to the next part, ‘Stories’. This is the real gem, with every picture telling a story from a particular time and place. It can’t be easily summarized, so I’m not going to try. Lastly, there was ‘Places’, where the place unusually happened to be York. There was a very cool drawing by Lowry of Clifford’s Tower, but the most striking was Moore’s oil canvas Coastal Scene with Shrimpers.
On my way out, I noticed that one of the best works was actually in the stair well (which is surprising given the crap that received more prominent display). Simon Periton’s The Anonymous Rose was an interesting work of psychedelic flora spray-painted on glass. I doubt Andy Warhol could have done better. Finally, the tea in the ground-floor café was amazing. Putting two and two together, I realised that was probably why all the tourists were going crazy when I came in. Feeling well-cultured, I left to buy a pasty from Greggs and catch my bus. All-in-all, it had been an afternoon well-spent.
York Art Gallery is open daily from 10am-5pm. Admission is free.
Dear Mr Hodgson,
It is unfortunate that your gastro-sensitivity prevented you from a more meaningful engagement with the modern exhibit--perhaps some Pepto-Bismol would easy your discomfort. Artists, modern or otherwise, typically go to great efforts to express something meaningful. Without constructive comment or critical insight, your expose crassly deflates the art, the gallery, the artists, and the patrons. Bravo! you've publicly declared several works "crap," even though you're "in no way qualified to criticize works of art." At least the disclaimer was on the money.
Isn't the point of art to be subjective, you shouldn't have to be well acquainted with the method in order to form an opinion on art.
At least he was honest that he was a relative newcomer to this rather than attempting to bluff his way through it or needlessly brown-nose to make himself sound knowledgeable.
@ Buck Thompson
Perhaps you didn't read the first paragraph: I am in no way qualified to offer constructive comment or critical insight, so why would I attempt to do so?
As for "crassly deflat[ing]" the gallery, I'm interested to learn how you reached that conclusion when I wrote that I enjoyed several exhibitions and judged the afternoon to be well-spent?
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