Christopher Lloyd is a historian for the big picture, believing that history should now include our relationship with the natural and material worlds. Now, he's followed his large illustrated books What on Earth Happened? and What on Earth Evolved? with a Wallbook that opens out to tell the human story from the Big Bang to now. Cunningly arranged, with more information than you'd think possible in such a span, it's a great way of taking your bearings on how we got to this point. The text on the reverse of the chart also does a brilliant job of topic selection. It is particularly good on the emergence of our culture, picking up techniques along the way, especially domesticating crops and animals. The What on Earth? Wallbook is currently available at £15 from the What on Earth? website or call 01443 828811.
Banksy versus Bristol Museum is an obvious media and popular triumph but many seem to want to play down its artistic significance. The show is actually full of surprises and paints Banksy in a new light: the heir to a line that includes Picasso, Sir Ernst Gombrich and the study of mimicry in nature. How so? One room in the show contains pieces that Banksy could never have mounted on the street: animatronic creatures in caged installations. These include a rabbit surrounded by make up gear admiring herself in front of a mirror and a chimpanzee artist rocking his head, closing one eye after the other as he sizes up the conventional landscape he is painting. These make telling points about human vanity and they also show how easily an impression of life can be created by a few simple movements: if it twitches it must be alive. Then there is the animated processed food. Chicken nuggets hatched from eggs are feeding; a salami squirms as if to escape its plastic casing; a mustard-coated sausage in a hot dog sips water. But the most amazing of these living processed food sculptures is the salami in which the thread that tied it to a hanging string is draped to look like whiskers. The cartoon minimalism of this creature is stunning: a craning salami head and a wispy string and, hey presto, it is a walrus. But – the other stroke of genius – the tail of this writhing walrus/salami has already been diced and sliced several times. It is impossible to look at Banksy’s salami without thinking of the assemblages Picasso created around 1948-51. Foraging for suggestive junk around rubbish tips in Vallauris, he created a series of sculptures, including a Little Owl who struts on rusty screws for feet, a bull’s horns made from a bike handlebar, and a baboon’s head from two toy cars, placed wheel to wheel. Whether Banksy was thinking of Picasso’s assemblages when he created these living-food pieces I don’t know but he was certainly thinking of Picasso when he mounted the show. On a plaque inscription he quotes Picasso as saying that “Bad artists copy; great artists steal”, scratches out the attribution to Picasso, and substitutes his own name. There is no evidence Picasso ever said this, although one feels he ought to have. The authentic quote is from T. S. Eliot (“immature poets imitate; mature poets steal”) but in essence I’m sure that Eliot, Picasso and Banksy are at one on this. In one piece Banksy surpasses Picasso by using equipment unknown in the 1950s. The contemporary hi-tech equivalent of Picasso’s Little Owl is the CCTV family of a mother and two chicks. Perched on their poles over the motorways, CCTV cameras already look like storks; in the Banksy, a mother CCTV gazes down solicitously on her two tiny offspring. Her head roves back and forth over them; the agitated babies crane up to her, jiggling their beaks for food, as fledglings do. The wit and resonance of this piece – its punning on ideas of surveillance, protection, and maternal care v. Big Brother intrusion – is a triumph. Such punning visual suggestions were of deep interest to the art historian Sir Ernst Gombrich, who showed how a thread of visual punning ran through cartooning (Banksy is, much of the time, a cartoonist), and advertising, as well as fine art. He highlighted the punning of natural forms and human gestures, as in an 18th century French cartoon which saw the character of Louis Philippe’s face in a pear (a secondary meaning of “poire” in French is fathead, so the cartoon is both visually insulting, in emphasizing the flabby jowly features of the King and a verbal insult). Gombrich commented: “Thus a play on words and a visual joke were happily combined”. Gombrich also noted that nature has equivalents for artistic styles; leaf mimicry is naturalistic but a butterfly’s eyespots “represent, if you like, the Expressionist style of nature”, meaning that the eyespot is a symbolic warning gesture that doesn’t copy anything. For millions of years before Picasso and Banksy appeared on the scene, creatures have been masquerading as a different kind of thing entirely, either camouflaging themselves against the background like the peppered moth (pale and peppered against lichen in the country; black against soot in the city), or mimicking the form of a stone, a leaf or another creature, as the harmless kingsnakes do, donning the red, yellow and black banding of the toxic coral snakes. In his two-dimensional work Banksy is expert at pointing up the sad contradictions of human existence: the gross Western tourist couple, grinning inanely and self-admiringly into their camera phones as they are pulled in a rickshaw by a waif of an Asian boy; another waif, lost in a blasted wilderness, sporting an “I Don’t Like Mondays” T shirt. In Banksy’s “menagerie room” at Bristol, in three dimensions, he ranges across the world of animals/food and machines to show that our vaunted gestures are not so grand and that vitality and significant form reside in all creation. Picasso would be applauding and so, I think, would Darwin, who was the first to note the similarity between animal and human expressions. The Orange Prize party has been honed over the years till it has reached some sort of pinnacle of party perfection: last night everyone agreed: “the best party of the year”. It wasn’t always quite like this. In the days when bankers ruled, some of the vast outlay wasn’t so wisely chosen: there was the one at the Royal Opera House with pop girly dancers. The cathedral fluted roof of the Royal Courts of Justice couldn’t really combine with Orange’s slick stage dressing. But for the last two years they have settled on the perfect venue: the Clore Ballroom at the Festival Hall: a fairly bland room on which anything might be painted. 1962 | AuthorI'm a writer and musician whose interests include the biological revolution happening now, the relationship between art and science, jazz, and the state of the planet ArchivesMay 2012 CategoriesAll |
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