Where’s the art?

You may have noticed that visual art has been thin on the ground here lately. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it but today I came across this article about “reader’s block“

Alain de Botton, writes “I often go through periods when I feel a need to take stock, think and generally not read very much. My mind isn’t blank, just too dense with thoughts that need untangling.  Sometimes I can’t “get into” any books, usually because I’m at a stage of forming a set of interests. So I feel as if nothing interests me, when in fact, I’m just growing into an interest. Forcefeeding books is as risky as forcefeeding food. One has to let the appetite arise naturally - and the constant pressure to read new prizewinning books can give one an unhealthy sense of guilt about periods when the mind is just idle - as it needs to be regularly to digest experiences. “

So I think maybe I have the visual art equivalent - “viewer’s block“, I just don’t want to look at anything and am feeling quite jaded. I can tell, because I committed a contemporary art ‘crime’ this week when reading John Hurrell’s review of Richard Maloy: Yellow Grotto/Raw Material at Sue Crockford and going “Oh for goodness sake - really”. How close-minded of me, but butter? I mean really? Some post-modernist comment on globalism and corporate giants like Fonterra - or just butter? I am just too tired to think about it.

Hodge Podge*

The school holidays and tax returns have snuck up on me to yet again its a time of barely keeping my head above water and sadly still contemplating my lack of a compost bin (while the wood to build it languishes in the tardis garage).

My attempt to lighten things by reading fiction went totally awry, although I am enjoying “The Witch of Portobello” to some degree. The library requested Waimarino County back for their Montana Book award display so I couldn’t slowly go over that again and I don’t have the heart to more than briefly open two poetry books** that unexpectedly arrived, after hearing the author’s comments on his poetry. I will have to force myself though as they are due back soon. Libraries are fantastic but sometimes owning a book is required so I keep putting my gold coins in the piggy bank and forgo coffee for a while - I’ve actually started drinking tea!. I have also been offered the Dean Buchanan book “Wild Beast” at a knock-down price so am mulling over that as my next prospective purchase.

Things do improve as the days lengthen and I was pleased to see the extensive web resources related to the Rita Angus exhibition at Te Papa. Its all good for shut-ins like me and I think Te Papa has really picked up their game on the internet front, although I suspect they have a backlog of work to get through. And a tip - you can download the audio resources for the exhibition and take them on your own ipod (or the like) and save yourself $5.

Art writing is taking some interesting turns and I am curious as to why Tom Cardy has been doing the visual arts writing for the DomPost in the last few weeks (interesting look at Fiona Halls “Force Field” today), Jill Trevelyan writes about Picasso’s collection in the Listener and on a more literary note anyone interested in the Bloomsbury group (that would be me) would do well to read Diana Witchel’s excellent article on her tour. On this subject though, I can’t go past the movie Carrington with Emma Thompson in the title role and Jonathon Pryce doing a wonderful Lytton Strachey.

(Giles) Lytton Strachey (1880-1932), by Dora Carrington, 1916.

*common English for Hotch-Potch, a mixture; mutton soup thick with pieces of meat and all sorts of vegetables, also Hot-Pot
**”Houses, days, skies” and “Streets of Music” by Martin Edmond

A Poem

I was rummaging though my things looking for something today and in side an old choclate box (how clichéd!) I came upon a yellowed bit of note paper with a poem on it given to me by an American friend probably 15 years ago. I did not find what I set out to, but I found what I was looking for.

Like You

Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don’t end in me
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.

- Roque Dalton

El Salvadoran poet, murdered 1975

I believe this is a photograph of Neruda and Dalton (correct me if I am wrong)

The waiting (is the hardest part…)

For the first time I am tempted to use my blog in the cuttingly efficient (and amusing) way that Cactus Kate does. However I won’t, mainly because the person in question probably doesn’t even read this. Good things come from bad though including discovering a lovely poem that sums it up called “Waiting“. A friend once told me that everything has already been said in a song lyric - I add to that “or a poem”.

I have decided that changing my reading may help navigate a way through my current personal morass so I took all my books back to the library this morning, incuding the masses of unfinished ones, and got some fiction out. I am not a big fiction reader but maybe something a bit lighter is in order. Its like needing to watch (a good British) comedy after a long meal of documentaries. My fiction list is embarrassing though so don’t expect to see it here.

On a more artistic front I have been asked to comment on A. Lois White and Ralph Hotere. I am no art historian but in my internet wanderings I found these two items which probably capture some essence of the artists.

Hotere
I do love his stuff - espcially the corrugated iron work (it resonates!). However Over the Net today mentioned “The elephant in the room” in Alan Smith’s words on Song of Solomon and the absence of reference to McCahon - maybe it was assumed? Anyway in other works not so obviously paying homage there is a kinship which I like.

Song of Solomon

A. Lois White
White’s work is generally a little too ‘graphic’ in style for me but I love stories (and storytellers) and this one struck me.

“In 1975 the Wellington dealer Peter McLeavey called at the Blockhouse Bay house White shared with her sister. He was greeted by an artist who thought of herself as ‘old fashioned’. Many of her early compositions were stacked in her studio and garage. In 1977 McLeavey organised White’s first solo exhibition and brought her work to the attention of the galleries and collectors. She was 74 years old.”

Nude at Easel - Self Portrait (circa 1935)