30 September, 2009
I have been a closet fan of Baroque since my art school days and you did not want to admit to that kind of deviant thinking in the 60s, so the recent exhibition at the V&A was something of a relief as it meant that at last I could come out. I was scarcely more than a toddler when I saw Bernini’s baldacchino (canopy) in St Peter’s and subconsciously from then on ‘over the top’ (a short hand description of baroque) has been my kind of thing.
Baroque is also mysterious, even the name has no clear meaning other than an adjective to describe an irregular shape, exemplified in the figure of a camel with blackamoors display near the start of the exhibition. It is almost impossible to pin down as baroque keeps reinventing itself in so many forms, spheres and locations, no continent is untouched.
Baroque is a passionate and an immensely mutable style, it translates well and assumes local colour and motives, it also harbours transcendental forces at its core. This makes it the ideal medium of communication for both religious and secular ideals as it is both uplifting and intimidating. You do not argue with the baroque.
Baroque is so universal that I feel it may not be a style at all but a gene that is in all of us. I cannot think of another ‘style’ that straddles so many disciplines; art, music, architecture, fashion, furniture – the list goes on and on but opera, its great invention has to be singled out for recognition. You could say baroque lives on and we see it every day in the work of Versace, Westwood and Gucci, perhaps they are part of a new persuasive religious order, the order of the self.
The exhibition itself was skillfully put together with the familiar ‘walk-through’ style that tells the tale but also keeps the crowds moving and the displays magnificent. There are some spectacular highlights; Domenico Cucci’s ebony and gold cabinet, many of the religious objects and the flamboyant filigree silver bedroom furniture made for the Countess of Dorset which looks like it was made from aluminium ring-pulls at a distance.
In the end for me it was not a great experience as I felt that the remit was too wide and it tried to cover too many aspects of baroque, which led to a lessening of the impact; for me baroque’s presence has to be overwhelming or as I prefer to say – over the top.
30 September, 2009
It is wonderful that there is space for an exhibition of this kind and the V&A is the ideal location; it is after all a rather idiosyncratic subject and if I had not seen it I would know less than nothing about court dress in Russia. It is interesting to see the actual garments worn by emperors and their entourage close up, and it does give one the feeling of ‘being there’. The only other time we see such a display is in a Hollywood movie.
The Magnificence of the Tsars is quite a modest exhibition but delightful nonetheless. Modest in the size of the garments that is, they look too small for the stature of today’s men and boys; perhaps everyone was small in those days, like the suits of armour in the Wallace Collection.
The wardrobe of Peter II is one of the main features of the show and he died at age 14 so that does explain the diminutive size of some of the garments.
Aside from that what did I find interesting? Well, we know Peter the Great looked to Western Europe to modernise his country but I did not realise that they had to have their court dress made in Paris, and this must have sparked the long association between Paris and Moscow. Later on there were two other factors that influenced court dress, first the rationalising and revamping of Russian heraldic orders and second, the westernising of military uniforms. Military uniform became everyday wear for the court of Alexander III.
An afterthought; although it is not going to happen I do have a fantasy fear that I am wearing a pair of those very expensive and fancy postillions’ boots and I step in some horse **** - I am in deep trouble.
30 September, 2009
The catalogue from the Royal Academy of Arts’ Aztecs exhibition (2002-3) is one of my treasured reference sources, in part due to the luxurious layout and beautiful photography of Michel Zabé (if the designer is credited their citation is unavailable*).
This catalogue heightened my expectations of the British Museum’s Moctezuma exhibition, supported by a number of Mexican organisations. To be fair to the British Museum this much more compact exhibition did not attempt to emulate ‘Aztecs’ but that didn’t reduce my disappointment in some aspects of the show.
The crowd flow in such a small space was not good and although entry numbers were controlled there were just too many people trying to view the exhibition. It was an exhibition where the curator, Colin McEwan, appears to spoon feed the exhibits in a narrative linear style. It’s irritating at the best of times as it talks down to the customer - something to be avoided. **
The style falls apart when the exhibition is so crowded that the best strategy is to leap frog the exhibits you can’t get near and double back on yourself when you have the opportunity to take a closer look.
I was also irritated by the respelling of the Aztec ruler’s name: along with many others I had always referred to him as Montezuma. I believe it’s the result of an original typo (life is always more interesting with the typos left in) but on checking the Aztec catalogue I found Motecuhzoma. It seems no one agrees.
It was whilst browsing the Aztecs catalogue that I came across the phrase ‘ritual murders’ in a chapter about human sacrifice. The term ‘ritual murder’ implies a value judgement of human sacrifice that should not be made about a people and set of religious beliefs that we barely understand. ‘Ritual murder’ has the ring of colonial-speak about it, although I do see that while no less common these days (Gordon Brown springs to mind) it’s a subject that needs sensitive handling.
I checked the BM exhibition guide and it’s human sacrifice all the way.
* A recent glossy from the Design Council celebrating Britain’s creativity, Industry Insights, noticeably omitted to credit the designer of the publication. I question the value placed on the contribution of creative practitioners to our economy and culture.
** Perhaps I’m being unfair: the British Museum knows their audience better than I do and for day trippers this style of exhibition works well allowing them to take away a handy snap-shot of the period. I like to be told less and imagine more – it’s often what’s not there that inspires you to get involved with the subject and embark on fruitful research. I search for inspiration rather than entertainment.
30 September, 2009
Continuing its Mexican theme, the British Museum hosted an exhibition of Mexican graphics, curated by Mark McDonald, alongside the Moctezuma show. Aware that the Moctezuma show was re-writing (and spelling) history in more ways than one - repositioning Moctezuma II not so much as a betrayer of his people but the victim of the wicked conquistadors - I was all eyes.
The juxtaposition worked well and the show was far more enjoyable than the main event: my knowledge and appreciation of ‘los tres grandes’(the three great men of Mexico), Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco and David Alfaro Siqueiros, increased considerably.
When the skills of the graphic designer are combined with a political imperative, great work ensues;think Alexander Rodchenko (1891-1956) and Liubov Popova (1889-1924), who were contemporaries. Communicating the message of revolutionary movements requires bold visual treatments, you cannot afford to be nuanced, you must be bold. It’s also worth noting that print making was the only available means to communicate to the largely illiterate masses.
Bringing the 35 or so artist of revolutionary Mexico together is what made this exhibition and there were many iconic, readily recognisable pieces.I’m particularly fond of the work of José Guadalupe Posada, the skeleton man. Great drawing skills, important messages and a good sense of humour make for effective communication.
He’s also interesting for being a commercial artist willing to turn his hand to a whole range of commissions. La Calaveras (to give the skeletons their proper name) are his hallmark and Día de los Muertos a regular theme.
There’s a direct link between his drawings and the Aztec representations of Cihuateotl, the goddess of (mothers who die in) childbirth. It’s important to have roots and Posada’s go back a long way; it’s a pity but no real surprise that he died forgotten in such poverty. I have postcard of La Calavera Catrina – elegant death.