The Tate Modern and the curse of artistic sensibilities.
I visited the
Tate Modern last Saturday, with some friends who’d come to London
As my little
one is only about five months old it was difficult to tell how much he was
actually taking in strapped to my front. Unfortunately I fared little better. I
walked around this strange collection of installations, objects and creations
feeling generally very cold and detached. I couldn’t relate to any of it. Why
didn’t it move me? I passed through crowds of foreign tourists and art lovers
all seemingly eagerly engaged with textures, shapes, colours and impressions. I
was in another world though, slightly removed, held back by an impenetrable
barrier. Maybe I should have worn a neck scarf, open shirt and corduroy trousers?
Many of the men there had done so, and they seemed to be enjoying what they
were looking at.
We were
through and staggering, exhausted, to the café before I really realised what
was happening. At least the café price list was something I could comprehend,
if not appreciate!
As I left the
building I was wondering what was wrong with me? And then I realised, I’ve
conditioned myself to expect some sort of epiphany in these circumstances, a
click in my head that suddenly brings the world to light and life in a whole
new way. It wasn’t the artwork that was at fault – it was me. As a literature
student, writer, actor, whatever, I’ve set my own expectations that all forms
of creative art will appeal and have secrets and meanings that one can unlock
which will set fire to the world, to my world.
But then
surely it’s also the artwork that’s at fault because it doesn’t speak to me in
a way that I can understand? Should I need to read an essay to understand what Mirror on Canvas ‘means’ or represents,
for example? Not if it’s in an open gallery, no. Shouldn’t a piece of art, like
a piece of literature or a film, have a clear purpose or meaning that is
apparent to most, and then possibly some hidden depths for those who choose or
are able to study deeper and contextualise the work from various viewpoints? Or
is this just arty nonsense?
Maybe because
I don’t understand this kind of art or how I’m supposed to relate to it, I
should just stick to the National Gallery, which always fills me with joy and
inspiration when I visit it. But I can’t help the niggling feeling that I’m
missing out on something somehow...
