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deviYesterday I got off work early and went to see The House Of Books Has No Windows, the current exhibition at Modern Art Oxford. Till then I'd never seen anything I really liked there and had got into the lazy habit of thinking I had to go to London for my art fix. (Staring at Rothkos when you've only had a couple of hours' fragmented dozing on a sofa is an... interesting experience.) But this - It's only on till Sunday. If you are in Oxford, go see it. It is amazing.
It's a series of crazily detailed installations, and these are just a few of the things in it: Two old gramophone horns having an argument. Two others telling ghost stories. A tiny piece of countryside in a suitcase. Sinister killer robot arms. A tiny cinema showing the run-up to a murder. A Wishing Machine (tried and tested! Insert your wish here!). A huge epic song about tragedy and trains in the style of Nick Cave or maybe Tom Waits, and much more wonky, haunting, semi-automated music besides. And lots and lots of hinted stories that you have to piece together yourself as you wander around.
The first one is called The Dark Pool. It's the one in the main picture - a small dark-walled room filled with stacks of old books and odd objects, criss-crossed with wires from which dim bulbs hang. There are little speakers all around the room which sense when someone is nearby and start to talk to you, or to each other, or play music or fragments of old movie dialogue. There's something weirdly intimate about being near a speaker when it quietly says 'hello', as if a friend has spoken in your ear. According to the leaflet, and to clues you pick up as you look around, it's about old age and memories and half-remembered stories and maybe about the grandmother of one of the artists, but to me it felt like being in someone's head, cluttered with all the information they'd picked up through their lives, with bits of old conversations and jingles echoing round it.
(The subject line is how I misremembered the title after seeing the very cool flyers around town.)
It made me wish I could do some art installations. I do have an idea for one, but getting a room to do 3D stuff in seems much harder than persuading a café to hang your paintings. Then again I haven't really tried, so who knows?
Also: tonight Dan and I are going to a gig at the Wheatsheaf. Silent Alliance/Witches/Monday Morning Sun. "Monday Morning Sun was born from an admiration of psychedelic, ambient, dub, trip hop and mind-numbing guitar driven music, with lyrics pondering personal yet universal themes", says the mail I got. Do they really mean "mind-numbing"? I doubt it. But whatever, I haven't been to a gig in ages. Come join us if you're at a loose end. Doors are at 8.
The newspapers are making me dispirited and sad. Reading stuff like the column in the Independent by a resident of Gaza (his dad died ten days ago, and he just found out his house was destroyed on the day his wife's due to give birth), and the whole Heathrow runway thing, makes me feel like there's no place for optimism and that all idealism is doomed. But the bits of the world near me seem like a giant toyshop full of fascinating new things and exciting plans. It's a confusing business.
Happy weekend, all.
It's a series of crazily detailed installations, and these are just a few of the things in it: Two old gramophone horns having an argument. Two others telling ghost stories. A tiny piece of countryside in a suitcase. Sinister killer robot arms. A tiny cinema showing the run-up to a murder. A Wishing Machine (tried and tested! Insert your wish here!). A huge epic song about tragedy and trains in the style of Nick Cave or maybe Tom Waits, and much more wonky, haunting, semi-automated music besides. And lots and lots of hinted stories that you have to piece together yourself as you wander around.
The first one is called The Dark Pool. It's the one in the main picture - a small dark-walled room filled with stacks of old books and odd objects, criss-crossed with wires from which dim bulbs hang. There are little speakers all around the room which sense when someone is nearby and start to talk to you, or to each other, or play music or fragments of old movie dialogue. There's something weirdly intimate about being near a speaker when it quietly says 'hello', as if a friend has spoken in your ear. According to the leaflet, and to clues you pick up as you look around, it's about old age and memories and half-remembered stories and maybe about the grandmother of one of the artists, but to me it felt like being in someone's head, cluttered with all the information they'd picked up through their lives, with bits of old conversations and jingles echoing round it.
(The subject line is how I misremembered the title after seeing the very cool flyers around town.)
It made me wish I could do some art installations. I do have an idea for one, but getting a room to do 3D stuff in seems much harder than persuading a café to hang your paintings. Then again I haven't really tried, so who knows?
Also: tonight Dan and I are going to a gig at the Wheatsheaf. Silent Alliance/Witches/Monday Morning Sun. "Monday Morning Sun was born from an admiration of psychedelic, ambient, dub, trip hop and mind-numbing guitar driven music, with lyrics pondering personal yet universal themes", says the mail I got. Do they really mean "mind-numbing"? I doubt it. But whatever, I haven't been to a gig in ages. Come join us if you're at a loose end. Doors are at 8.
The newspapers are making me dispirited and sad. Reading stuff like the column in the Independent by a resident of Gaza (his dad died ten days ago, and he just found out his house was destroyed on the day his wife's due to give birth), and the whole Heathrow runway thing, makes me feel like there's no place for optimism and that all idealism is doomed. But the bits of the world near me seem like a giant toyshop full of fascinating new things and exciting plans. It's a confusing business.
Happy weekend, all.
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Date: 2009-01-16 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 05:23 pm (UTC)It's a strange dichotomy, how we balance our lives with the big horrors far away and the tiny joys of art & music at the same time. If we didn't have the latter we'd give up all hope, but it's all too easy to hide away from the big scary stuff and live entirely in escapism. I understand how this works, & sometimes I wish I could.
D - come & see some art with me in London sometime, yes? ;-)