Not for Sale

I realised yesterday that I never wrote anything about my most recent SALON show, Not for Sale, which is now over and done with.

It was probably the strangest show I've ever done: some of the strongest work I've shown in the weirdest space I've ever worked in. My (now ex) flatmates decided a week before the show was to open that they didn't want it to happen in our flat, so I was incredibly lucky that the big bossmen at Spoonfed were happy for me to use the top floor of their lovely Georgian office building in Angel.

Not that the circumstances were ideal, but I think I more that made the best of a peculiar situation and I was really happy with the way everything turned out. Sometimes a happy accident turns out to be better than what I'd intended. I think it's just about getting to the stage - especially for a control freak like me - where you can recognise the accident results in something better. Like Tessa's painting, which I planned to put upstairs but it was too big to get up the stairs to the top floor. I just left it on the third-floor landing and it looked so much better there than it ever would have on the top floor. Gregoire's posters were witty and, again, also worked well on the top-floor landing, while Ross' video poems were far more of a hit than I expected. Two girls who came to see the show one afternoon spent about 40 minutes watching every single video. I've never seen anyone watch that much 'video art' in my life. They said that if every exhibition was like this one, they'd go to a lot more art exhibitions. Amazing.

The dinners in lieu of a private view were even better than I hoped, so much so that I don't think I'll ever go back to the old way of doing things. The ever-inventive Blanch and Shock conjured up a brilliant menu, one that seemed to delight most of the guests, and we just sat down and talked. I invited a lot of people I'd never met, but always wanted to - academics, scientists, journalists, artists, writers, thinkers - and got them to come to dinner with me. There were a few glitches on the first night, but all in all I was extremely pleased. It was exhausting and a lot of work, but the guests were wonderful, the atmosphere was brilliant, and the food was delicious. Also, I think the dinners allowed guests a far better opportunity to look at the exhibition than a traditional private view where you can hardly see anything for being so crammed in. The only thing I wish I'd done was take better pictures. But I had such a good time at the dinners that I forgot to take any photos until everyone had left, which is no bad thing at all.

And finally, Tom's written some lovely words about the exhibition and dinners over on Spoonfed.

Ross Sutherland: Experiment to determine the existence of Love + Shortcut

This is Ross Sutherland. He is awesome. His poems are excellent.

Buy his new book, Twelve Nudes.

I receive no commission from Penned in the Margins.

None at all. 

I just like good poetry.

Ode on an English Poet

Some time ago I wrote a piece about the relationship between artists and critics. The piece went something like this: a lady journalist for the Guardian said that critics shouldn't write about their artist friends. I said she was full of shit, though to be fair, I wasn't quite so rude at the time. Here's an example why I think she's wrong.

Enter stage left, Ross Sutherland. Okay, so I wouldn't exactly call Ross a friend in the friendly sense of the word, but he's not quite an acquaintance either. We haven't had a drink together, but he performed at one of my SALON nights, I've got his number in my phone, and we're 'friends' on facebook. According to the laws of 21st century relations, that probably constitutes friendship.

The reason I so vehemently disagree with the lovely lady journalist is because sometimes your artist-type friends are really good at stuff and just because you're a critic doesn't mean you can't be objective about your own friends. Not only that, but you shouldn't be afraid of telling people how good stuff is, even is said stuff is penned and performed by people you have less than objective relations with. Obviously you want to support these people, but you also want to help the viewing public - to introduce them to something new and amazing.

I had a conversation with another friend at lunch last week about modernism and the decline of close-knit cultural circles. Even though neither of us are that keen on modernist philosophies, we agreed that it was a great time to be an artist: with your Peggy Guggenheims and your Gertrude Steins - your Eliots and Picassos and Hemingways and Pounds - this sort of cultural community that sometimes feels like it doesn't exist anymore. And if lady journo had her way, there wouldn't be any cultural community at all - for how can such a thing exist if critics and patrons are encouraged not to patronise (can you use this word in this sense anymore?) the people whose work they admire and respect.

But one glittering bonus that came out of putting on the SALON exhibition is that I saw a whole different side of London's artistic community. There are people making things happen - this man is a very good example - and making cross connections and doing and supporting and having a jolly good time. Ross is very much a part of this and his show reminded me that I shouldn't be so sourpussed about the golden ages of cultural history past - we're doing pretty fine with what we've got.

So. The kid's got talent. I've seen him read his poetry before - from this book - and he's great: most of his poetry is inordinately clever, and narrative driven, but rather surprisingly steeped in formalist technique. Like the best rules and restrictions always do, though, formalism frees Ross up to do all kinds of crazy stuff. His take on univocalism has me in stitches every time I hear it (though it isn't in the current show) and his N+7 (where you replace every noun/verb with the one seven places below it in the dictionary) reworking of the little red riding hood story turns out the hilariously inspired 'the liverish red-blooded riffraff hoo-ha'. But apart from the fact that Ross' poetry is more than good enough to stand on its own, the framing device offered by this show turns it into something altogether more poignant and provocative. What surprised me most of all is how moving the show is - not something I often experience at more straight-up poetry readings.

Ross does what many of the best artists do - in one of my creative writing courses at Uni, the instructor was always shouting at us to, 'write what you know!'* - and has taken episodes from his own sort of annus horribilis and turned them into a lesson for us all: our future is of our own making. Thankfully, he never bludgeons the lesson into his audience but allows it to creep neatly in via his artful time-capsule. One of my favourite bits of the show was when Ross explained how Keats' 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' inspired the creation of the time capsule - he managed to make Keats totally and hilariously relevant to an audience full of people who I'm pretty sure had never read any Keats in their life, let alone his ode to an urn. Any man who can do that is all right by me.

The point is critics should write about their artist friends because sometimes their artist friends are great. So go see The Three Stigmata of Pacman not because Ross is my friend, but because his show is great.

* funnily enough he sounded exactly like Wallace Shawn. There's a whole other story there, but I'll save that for another time