How the World is...

Missmc has seen it all. From Primrose Hill to Shoreditch and many points in between, the Frieze Art Fair has cannily provided a glimpse into how-the-world-is. In Primrose Hill, the Museum of Everything is a shrine to the art of everyone the Frieze Art Fair is not devoted to. Inside an ex-recording studio used by the likes of Madonna and Paul McCartney, an exhibition of 'naive' art is hung salon style over the ramshackle space. It is like stepping into the looniest part of the brain, the Freudian zone of things-that-should-be-kept-in-the-back-of-the-mind. Intense obsession reigns. At the MoE I was lucky enough to see the screening of MAKE, a movie made by my friend Scott Ogden. If you see MAKE, you will develop a love for these uncomfortable and sometimes absurd works of art. The touching humanity he lends to the portrayal of four 'outsider' artists is contagious.

It was in keeping with the spirit of the Frieze VIP tourbus that whisked Missmc around to East End Galleries last evening. The highlight was the bus itself. The drivers were 'outsider' drivers who seemed to have been given command of a bus for the very first time. We nearly toppled into Maureen Paley's understated digs as our driver careened over the curb. Nettie Horn's gallery provided a fantastic Mojito to enhance our journey. Anselm Kiefer's M-o-n-u-m-e-n-t-a-l pieces at White Cube provided a fitting last stop before we headed off on foot to dinner.

The hushed bus conversations provided opinions about this year's art fair. Everyone was in near agreement. The humour, the follies and the absurdities were gone. And, everyone was craving the escapism of yesteryear. No one wanted to be prodded into seriousness. But the contemplation side of a folly-less universe is no doubt spurring things full circle back. Get ready for the return of the Sincerely-Absurdly-Dry (SAD?). Al Taylor, we need you back.

All about Tracey

I shirked all responsibility and spent the morning having tea with author friend B. at the Wolseley.  After a catch up, we wandered over to see the Tracey Emin exhibition at White Cube.  Seeing an Emin show is a challenging thing, as there are so many preconceptions and opinions regarding the work before laying eyes on it.  The cultural era of "Hello, let me tell you a little bit about myself" hit a high note in the 90's, and, Tracey rode that wagon in a zesty tabloid kind of way.  Madonna is also a product of the "Me" cultural marketing that incorporated sex and girl stuff.  But she is more pleased with her sexual self.  On the other hand, Tracey has always asked for a bit of pity whilst she flirts.

But back to the exhibition.  The work on offer features some bad poetry lit in neon that no matter whether straight from the heart, or contrived, is bad poetry.  Several very good pieces stitched on blankets with small baby blanket patches hang under glass frames.  They are pretty great in a formal sense, and, make sense for Tracey in a conceptual sense.  There are a lot of drawings featuring female masturbation.  Which, as far as drawings go, are quite alluring as she has a good hand - for drawing I mean.  Confessional notebooks with a raw quality sketching unfinished thoughts are clustered together.

All good.  What churns and turns the work wrong is the let-me-tell-you-a-little-about-myselfness of it.  It is such a self-focused enterprise, begging for pity and love, like the Big Issue selling-lady with a baby that I saw at 10pm the other night.  That sounds cold, but, I am uncomfortable when I feel I am being manipulated. Surely the Big Issue can be sold during better hours to accommodate baby?  

I can't find a reason to love Tracey, as she does not really converse with me.  But I am not an emotionally driven person.  I do think she has a lovely way of translation, and, her drawings have a powerful sway.  But, I would like to hear about something other than herself.

The Mallorcan Cockroach Killer

Mallorca.  Out there, amongst the fragrant orange blossoms and gin & tonic & another & another, the 2009 Scrabble tournament was held.  Sounds of bells from the valley of sheep lying in the distant south of poolside tinkled.  Rising early, I did try to write with a pen.  And I can say that I was utterly incapable of that.  Slow writing is not my thing.

This morning, back in sunny London I opened my suitcase to gaze at my trophies.  "World Scrabble Champion" and "Highest Scoring Word" were my winnings.  But something else was in my bag.  It scuttled across the floor.  After a few good screams, I crushed it to death with Jake Chapman's book.  Very appropriate.  Thank you Jake.  The Mallorcan cockroach should have stayed in the posh farmhouse.

Tennis, scrabble, and gin & tonic swilling are jolly good competitive sports.  As far as non-competitive, the blog is the thing.  While I was away, Leigh Caldwell was busily slogging on my site.  Humourously noted by Leigh, his name is "common" and mine is getting past its sell-by date.  A bloglift is in order.

So. Rebranding.  "The Outsider Economist", "Slow Economics" and "The Mallorcan Cockroach Killer" are all contenders.  In keeping with the viral tangent in the news of late, I think Leigh and I ought to rebrand with some hybrid names that reference each other.

Ponder that.  Whilst I go and see if I can get the blood off of Jake's book.