Gallery seven contained some of my favourite exhibits. Three artists were represented, Rupert Norfolk, Tim Ellis and William Daniels. Ellis' works were combinations of objects - plates, wooden stands and such - and were visually quite appealing but the bizarreness of the catalogue reaches its absolute zenith in the two descriptions. Or, depending on your point of view, its nadir. All the following phrases appear
a ubiquitous logic from the haphazard and coincidental
a sensitive interlacing between artifice and natural order
assemblages of totemic significance
engage in the notions of value, authorship and display
strives to engender his work
fabricates an instinctive harmony or genetic bonding
their familiar scaling becomes a template of karmic measurement
speaking the same cryptic language of universality and timelessness
If anybody can make sense of that lot I'll give him sixpence! I have no idea what they mean and no idea of how they can possibly relate to the work. It was pretty though.
William Daniels paintings were also pretty with an incredibly skilful use of light. He has an odd technique, sculpting copies of famous paintings in assorted materials, often metal foil and then painting a picture of the result in meticulous detail with every crease, fold and reflection perfectly crafted. The results are quite startlingly arresting.
It is however Rupert Norfolk whose art, a kind of trompe-l'oeil on a grand scale, attracted me most. There are only three pieces displayed and all have them the same eye-deceiving, mind-bending quality. The first, at first glance, looks for all the world like a random assemblage of stones in a dry stone wall. Only on close inspection do you notice that every stone is completely symmetrical. Each one has had one side carved and smooth into a replica of the natural opposite side. They have then been assembled into the wall. It must have taken ages and has the beautiful pointlessness of all great art. The second piece looks like a crumpled blanket thrown haphazardly onto the floor. Once again closer inspection reveals the trick. While some of the creases are real, some are not. The pattern of the weave has just been made to look like creases in parts that are actually flat. The third object is an industrial machine painted in highly reflective aluminium paint and lit starkly so that the shadows are all crisp and sharp. Once again it's a lie. The lighting is actually completely flat and neutral and the apparent shadows are painted onto the machine giving the illusion of harsh lighting. It's all quite magnificent and I shall certainly be looking out for further exhibitions of his work.
Gallery eight contained only two artists, both painters. Sigfrid Holmwood's selection had the look of old masters about them, paintings of medieval peasants going about their daily lives. They were all done, however, with a startling and garish palate of fluorescent colours that were bright enough to hurt the eye. I admired the skill but wouldn't hang one in my home if you paid me to do it. Ged Quinn's were also an oddity. From any distance they looked like classical landscapes, painted with painstaking detail. Only aspects of the subject matter, examined in closer detail, showed the oddity. For example a towering gloomy forest has, when you look, a tiny, but detailed painting of Hitler's Berghof nestling in the leaves on the forest floor and covered in graffiti. Very clever stuff.
Gallery nine I shall leave until next time.
