Monday, 18 April 2011

Art. Allegedly.

My wife persuaded me to see some art she was interested in. An effort for the poor lass, since my interest in culture seldom exceeds the remits of what's grown within a petri dish.

I'm no culture vulture and find my mind's attention when glancing at most modern art is roughly equivalent to my mind's attention when glancing at rows of bin bags in the supermaket. Which to choose? The work of but a moment, then time to move on. Unless it's Hunt, Millais or Rossetti. She effortlessly talked me to seeing Liverpool's pre-Raphaelite originals then impishly whooshed me along to the Tate Modern which regrettably lived up to my every expectation.

A few weekends ago we romped through London's museums and galleries, where I was pleasantly surprised, but she also fancied a trip to Yorkshire Sculpture Park to see some Henry Moore whatnots set out in the countryside. It looks interesting but what really got me was they'd the most weird Jaume Plensa creations.

Apologies for the images, they looked a lot sharper on my mobile 'phone!

Eerie, unnerving and unsettling, the glowing statues set in darkened rooms really were very powerful. Placing words like "Amnesia" and the like all over, to externalise what's usually internal, was lost on me and just seemed a bit naff, but the size, shape, structure, luminosity of it all was striking, with real impact.

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