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From: rg
Category: Exhibitions
Date: 08 March 2001
A day of radio 4 phasing in and out with the pirate garage radio station has lulled me into failing to awake and achieve my goals. Today I woke up with a real slow drift into consciousness over several hours. I used to spring brilliantly into consciousness with what seemed to me a bright unveiling of light. I don’t think it’s a question of ageing, I believe that those days will return, or at least my perception of my own consciousness will slow down sufficiently for it to seem to me that they do. The Saatchi gallery is very intimidating, and I am approaching it in stages. Today I almost visit. On several previous occasions, I have arrived after closing time, for the day or indeed for the exhibition. I have visited with three days of the end of both of the Eurovision exhibitions. From the front, it looks like a lock-up garage, or a high-security mews: a grey metal garage door, with a small door at the side and in front of that, a pillar with intercom and a small panel giving opening times and prices. Open until 6pm, last entry 5:45pm, £5 adults, £3 children, under 12s free. Recently they have added a sign that says ‘Saatchi gallery’, but this doesn’t really do much to perk it up. Inside the door, a surprise; a long driveway sloping down, in front a portacabin, a sign point left for Antnoises, and on the right an enormous advertising bill-board with three identical ‘Che’ images. Could be Che Guevara, could be Damien Hirst or something. Did you see that Damien Hirst has now opened a take-away branch of Pharmacy? Called something suitably punning, it has a hint of the pharmacy design, totally spoiled by the fact that it is clearly a standard notting hill corner-shop with a minor hint of delicatessen. Soon you will be able to order takeways on line. After openings, everyone moves from the Saatchi gallery to a very nice local pub, down the road. They do all seem like wankers. If you’re ever the area, I think the Drum and Monkey is better. The final stage of the route to the gallery proper is along another drive, all white on one side, all grey on the other, to a grey door with a low-key sign. And a larger sign explaining that ‘some of the exhibits are very delicate, please do not touch’. The robustness of brit-art given the lie at last! Inside, the space is big and white, the inside of a weakly-conceived but self-aware heaven fantasy from an early 80s movie. On the left, framed (framed!) front pages documenting the infamy of the Sensation exhibition in New York, including a Newsweek front page drawing attention to the court evidence of an objector, that he would not allow his daughter to see Michelangelo’s David. In front, the only part of the exhibition in this large front room, two babies in nappies on the floor. And on the right, the largest cluster of people at a bar, that resembles the merchandise counter at a gig; posters, catalogues, and presumably entrance fees. I linger, confused and annoyed. Should I just walk in? Pay on the way out? Pay now? I’m damned if I’m going to make a conscious and deliberate gesture to pay, or not to pay. On the wall in the second, larger room, that I can see from my spot of indecision, is the famous and rather good large picture of two babies sharing the same body – or, to be honest, it could easily be one baby leaning over the shoulder of another. But the unnatural flesh tones look suitably painterly and yet not done just for effect. It looks like that bloke who painted Leigh Bowery often, with a little bit of Francis Bacon as well – fleshy, renaissance chubby babies like over-ripe fruit in an over-ripe still life. It looks just like it did in the newspapers. And, I’m in a funny mood. So at least I walk home by a different route, walking through the estate by the passageway that I can see from my bedroom window, but it turns out to be no great shakes in the short-cut stakes. I would like to go and buy something, but alas, I have used up all my needs. I wish I’d bought a catalogue.
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