A Guide To Very Modern Art

Today, I want to talk about very modern art. Like ‘right now’ sort of art. It’s what you would probably call “modern art”, but if you don’t want to be the dumbest kid in your class, don’t call it that.

Technically, “modern art” went on between the 1860s and 1970s, a period that began with a book named “Ragged Dick,” and ended with All That Jazz, a film starring Rob Schneider Roy Sheider. Other significant events during this period were: basically all of the significant events ever. There was also some very important art, but we are not dealing with that art today. Today, we discuss the art after modern art. You might think that this would be “postmodern” art, but unfortunately, universities have ruined the use of “post-“ anything. What we are talking about is now commonly called “contemporary art”.

For fun, here are some of the Wikipedia entries that fall under the umbrella term “contemporary art”: Lowbrow; Plop art; Froissage (sounds filthy); Bad painting. There’s a long, long list, and most of them sound like second year university courses with eight students apiece. For us, the main criterion is that the art we want is found in a “modern/contemporary” museum (not even they know what to call it). Also, we are going to mainly focus on “installations,” because you’re sick of paintings anyway.

WARNING: You may not be ready for contemporary art. You probably won’t get it. Luckily, the following video is just what you need to understand the past, present, and even future of super-modern art. This lesson begins with Tom Green:

Maybe the trouble with Tom Green’s career was that he was too highbrow for us all.

 

Baitagogo by Henrique Oliveira

As you can see, this is a plywood tree coming out of the beams of the Palais de Tokyo. It is meant to resemble a Gordian knot. If you don’t know the story of the Gordian Knot, it goes a bit like this: there was an ox-cart tied to a post with a confounding, twisting knot (it was pre- Girl Guides). This was in Gordium, Phrygia, named after the founder of Motown. The cart remained there ages later, when along came Alexander the Great. Alex cut the knot with his sword, hence solving some sort of problem that had befuddled the Phrygians FOR CENTURIES! I always thought the Trojans had set the bar pretty low, but this is a new kind of stupid.

This is one of those old Greek tales that is meant to celebrate the greatness of a Greek hero (in this case Alexander). Some of them are impressive, and then some of them are pretty crap. For one of Hercules’ “Twelve Tasks”, he just hosed out some stables, which isn’t exactly fun, but is hardly heroic. Anyway, the Gordian Knot now symbolises an unsolvable problem. It’s like a metaphor or something.

Since we’re doing installations, we should probably look at a shark:

This is – honestly – called The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. It is by a very rich man named Damien Hirst. I reckon he regrets calling it that, now that the coke has worn off. I don’t reckon he regrets much else.

As I always say in these Guides, you need to look at these artworks and ask yourself how they affect you. How do they make you feel? For me, I am reminded of one thing: the seminal 1999 movie Deep Blue Sea, in which LL Cool J hides in an oven, and for which Samuel L. Jackson is still awaiting his Oscar:

You might remember in our Guide to portraits, we saw a lot of tops-off action. Real racy stuff. Hiroshi Sugimoto gets a little more 3D with it:

Aujourd'hui le monde est mort [Lost Human Genetic Archive]

This is probably meant to be a comment on society’s growing fixation on artificial stimulations, about how everyone’s losing grip on reality. It may also be a covert advertisement for “sex dolls”. For more on that, watch what might be the weirdest interview in morning TV history:

 [Skip to the 5-minute mark to have your only question answered, bald-facedly.]

 

Now, I don’t normally like to criticise art. When I do criticise, I prefer to give constructive criticism, such as “try using more purple.” Purple is the best colour. But I’m about to show you what I think is the worst piece of art I’ve ever seen. It’s called Drink Europa, by Charbel-joseph H. Boutros:

That is a glass of water on a shelf. It is probably an IKEA glass, and an IKEA shelf. You might even have one of those glasses at home. Why is it art? Well, apparently it contains water from each of 27 European countries, so if you drank some of it, you’d be drinking geography. To properly convey my feelings, here’s a Q&A section:

-       27 countries, eh? That must be all the countries of Europe! Nah, there’s like 50 countries. It’s just some of the countries.

-       Is it actually 27 countries? Good question. His website says 27 countries, but at the Palais de Tokyo it said 28. There are 28 countries in the EU, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say that this is what he means by “the 27 European countries,” and that he got his numbers wrong.

-      Could the extra one reflect the fact that Croatia acceded to the EU in 2013? Probably, but fix your website, guy!

-       Must be some fancy water though, huh? Some rare water? Nope, he went for the most popular branded mineral water available in each country. For example, Evian represents France.

-       Woah, but Evian is a really flash water company! Not in France. It’s just like Pump here.

-       But imagine, it’s like drinking geography! But you don’t drink it; you look at it. Why not look at a map? A map is a much better place to look at geography.

-       Ok, but it’s probably a really creative, unique thing to do. Putting a glass of water on a shelf? I mean, where else can you see that?!

The Tate Modern, in London, is the correct answer. You see, you can’t even defend this as being a creative and original piece of art. Drink Europa was made in 2013, but in 1973 a wacky Irish chap named Michael Craig-Martin put a glass of water on a shelf too. His was called An Oak Tree, and came with an accompanying diatribe explaining why the glass was really an oak tree. Said diatribe included the following: "It's not a symbol. I have changed the physical substance of the glass of water into that of an oak tree. I didn't change its appearance. The actual oak tree is physically present, but in the form of a glass of water."

That is, of course, everything you might hate about art. “Wankery”, I believe they call it. [It won’t surprise you to learn that M C-M went to Yale.] However, when you see it and read the full caption, it does leave a certain impression. I saw it when I was 14 (that age when you simply must visit modern art galleries), and have never forgotten it. It is original. And challenging.

Drink Europa is neither original nor challenging. When a 9 year-old goes on holiday to Europe, they might decide to collect a bit of dirt from each of the countries they visit (and smuggle it back through customs). Now, imagine if that dirt was mass-produced and could probably be bought at any decent British supermarket. It’s not water from an oasis in the desert, or from under the ice in the Arctic. If a Primary School class did that, you’d think ‘that’s a fun little project’, and then be pissed off because your kid had to bring the expensive water from Luxembourg. And then some kid would knock it over, and the glass would break, and then another kid would vomit – because they’re kids – and you’d take a photo of the vomit because it might actually look more like art than the fucking glass of water!

As an aside, I like imagining art forgers walking through the Tate Modern thinking, “I reckon we could do that one. See that urinal over there? Could probably buy one like that at Park & Clarke for $40.”

Sometimes, contemporary art is just provocative.

The Wall's Shout by John Giorno

Gross, but it might still be a better phrase than “Every Teardrop is a Waterfall”.

One of the big differences between contemporary art and its older counterparts is the effect that modern technology has had. Film is a good example. Films in Da Vinci’s time were pretty patchy, and the sound and lighting quality left a lot to be desired. Today, films can be art (see: that Tom Green clip above). Michael Bay, for instance, is going with the “more is more” approach in his filmmaking. About 75% of The Meaning of Life is just weird art.

In his art/film The Clock, Christian Marclay used scenes from movies which show the time, and put together a 24-hour clock. So if you go in at 2:45pm, there will be scenes which include a clock reading 2:45pm, and this will change at 2:46pm. So you’d have to watch the movie for 24 hours to see it repeat. Pretty good, nerdy stuff.

Here’s a clip featuring Colin Firth and a coked-up, shirtless Richard Gere. You’re welcome, ladies.

The Youtube caption says you were supposed to have watched that clip at 0.04pm, but I don’t think that’s a real time. It is a strangely addictive movie/clock/installation, mainly because you spend the whole time waiting for a movie that you’ve seen before, and then getting excited when you recognise something. Also, when you see it in a museum, it’s exciting because it’s like a movie, and you didn’t really want to go to a museum anyway. A movie is much better.

We’ve barely scratched the surface of contemporary art here. It’s so varied, so various, so varietal, that we couldn’t possibly hope to cover it all. And the best part is, there’s new contemporary art happening all the time! You know what, you could do some. I’ve already given you the kid’s vomit idea, or you could do something really conceptual where you draw on a crayon using paper…that’s definitely something an arty person would do.

A Guide to Gardening

Today, gardening is a bit of an anachronism, like natural breasts and idealism. But retro never goes out of style, and what could be more retro than good ol’ agriculture? It’s what separates us from the reptiles. Gardening is really just agriculture, but without the ambition. So get gardening!

Step 1: Make up a theme

The best gardens follow a theme, like “Japanese” or “Soviet Gulag”. To illustrate, we will examine my recent visit to the Domaine de Chaumont-sur-Loire International Garden Festival, in the Loire Valley. The oh-so-important theme for the festival was “Gardens of the Deadly Sins”, of which there are seven, apparently.

Oh, I forgot to mention that, generally speaking, the theme of a garden might not be obvious to the naked eye. Thus, it is important to accompany your garden with a descriptive plaque in order to get the message across. For example, this paragraph served as the description for the abovementioned Festival:

What if, entirely naturally, the garden led to unbridled hedonism - temptation born from a lost Eden, a thirst for knowledge and expense? A magical place which, to blossom, relies on the rule that subversion is possible and which, to thrive, knows where its limits lie…The gardens will celebrate an alchemy which, while far from flawless – ie free from sin – will nonetheless be, as Valery put it, “the perfection of the righteous.”

It is best if your plaque conveys very little except that you own a thesaurus.

As mentioned, the theme of this Festival was “sin”, and some of the garden exhibits approached this theme more literally than others. This garden represents “purgatory”, which I believe is the Catholic equivalent of café jazz:

This garden highlights an important concept: the hardest part about gardening is getting things to grow. To get around this, the gardener here just built all the hard bits out of wood. Simple! Then, to really nail the theme, [non-gender-specific pronoun, because it’s 2014] added some fun little “confessions”. Voila, la theme!

Apparently, we spend all our lives balancing sin. At least, I think that’s what was written on the plaque for this one:

See, those are all seesaws! That’s quite a feat of engineering, I’d say. Maybe not the best at getting the flowers to grow, but the carpentry is nice.

Step 2: Once you have a theme, pretend that your garden matches it

It doesn’t really matter whether you have the garden or the theme first, because whether you are a good gardener really depends on whether you’re a good carpenter. Just build something, plant some flowers around it, then act like you planned it all along.

In fact, if I had one tip for becoming a great gardener, it’d be doing a carpenter’s apprenticeship. That’ll sort it!

Step 3: Be a patriot!

They had a garden themed for the Volcanic Plateau. Our Volcanic Plateau. It was Mt Ruapehu, Mt Tongariro and Mt Taranaki, but in France! It even had its own obtuse write-up:

There was indeed smoke (steam, I reckon) rising from the volcanoes, especially Taranaki. As with many of the garden exhibits, if I’d never read the plaque, I would never have guessed that this was a venomous love triangle. I probably would have just thought that someone cleverly put together a few mountains and added some NZ-native bush. [See Step 2, above].

Strictly speaking, the mountains (as represented here) do not exactly accurately match their namesakes. But who cares? They had them, and they were glorious.

Step 4: Things you can walk through are good things

You’re already a whiz at carpentry, so why not carpent yourself up a pseudo-tunnel thing to walk through? Make your tunnel a spiral shape, to really show off:

Is that a young Liam Neeson?

Step 5: Accessorise!

As Seth from The OC once said, “if you were to put a mirror on that opposing wall, I really think that would open up the energy flow in this room.” Mirrors can be outdoor things too:

This is a great way to confuse any animals you might own, and is perfect for narcissistic nudists. If every garden had a mirror, can you imagine the improvement in everyone’s parents’ gardening attire?

You might like to put a table in your backyard. I would applaud that decision. I would double-applaud it if the table was enormous and had flowers growing in the middle of it:

This has dual benefits. First, your table can take up the entire backyard, but there is still room for all the pretty flowers that you will forget to plant. Second, you can conduct UN negotiations from the garden:

Step 6: Forget the flowers, a pool is better

Flowers die, but a pool won’t. Sure it might get all green and scummy, and if you get fish, the fish might die. So you get a cat, and train the cat to eat the dead fish, thereby saving you from flushing them down the toilet, and thus saving water (clean, green alternatives).
What if the cat drowns in the pool? The fish are piranhas. They’ll sort it out.
What if the cat dies in another fashion? I’ve got this cousin…never mind.

Don’t bother with the fish. What’s more important is that you have a pool. In fact, get a pool like the one above. It’s not even deep enough to swim in. There are no fish; no ducks. This pool is entirely aesthetic. What a display of needless excess. You had potentially useful land which could have grown crops or housed animals, but you put in a functionless pool because, eff it, you can. This is why the terrorists hate us.

Conclusion

If I were to critique my friends at the Domaine de Chaumont-sur-Loire International Garden Festival (if!) I would say that a garden festival is best suited to happy, colourful themes. A Lion King-themed garden would work, as would a Roses theme (the chocolates, but you could use roses – the flowers – to represent Roses – the chocolates). The gardens were very well designed (and carpented), but the theme was a bit of a non sequitur.

If I could leave you with one bit of advice, it’d be this: get a big field, and fill it with sunflowers. Sunflowers are the people’s flower.