At first, I got angry. Like when I put a foot in Oxford Circus or Portal del Angèl, full of people hypnotized by the idea of glamour and the nauseous smell of capital behind every piece of glitter.
It’s a terrible contradictory feeling getting in a MARKET of ART. I can’t help feeling sad when sensing that loss of innocence, that lack of fantasy around the the artistic experience. Facing such a touchable reality was schizophrenic: I was mad for being in a commercial centre for rich people to buy some beautiful/famous piece for their living room and at the same time I was fascinated, living a mystic and romantic experience by looking at so many and so wonderful works of Art!
A brief tour around:
This one caught my attention. Rabbit Construction from Gimhongsok “…questions of authorship and intent disrupt the reading of the work and destabilizes its meaning. Gimhongsok’s work skillfully critiques how global brands appropriate symbols and manipulate our desires while showcasing how these same symbols are cynically recycled for international audiences.” Pretty ironic and with that kind of symbolism that make all sense.
There were interesting three-dimensional structures:
Max Frisinger. This kind of structure remembers me my first year in Fine Arts, Porto. There’s something very “artistic” about it…
Thomas Saraceno “Hydrogen Cloud Explosion”
I don’t know the author of this one. Once again, I liked the structure and the sense of protection.
There were some intriguing poetry constructions and characters:
This one could be a post by itself. Do not touch. Please.
There were some interesting essays with colour and frozen images…
At this point I was (I am) getting tired of seeing things. That’s what happen.
But I did have that moment of pure fetish while contemplating some old lovers like Pipilotti Rist and Erwin Wurm. Or that strange feeling (I confess, I didn’t analyse it yet) when I see something from Damien Hirst.
Really good new one for me:
…and to finish this fucking art overdose in an exceptional way:
The perfect mirror for all of this and the main feeling after all:
P.S.- of course I didn’t pay the 50pounds (!) to get in. I had a fake press pass.
