Kitsch is an odd phenomenon. It is a whole category of production that is defined not by those who produce or consume it, but by those who look down upon it as bad taste. Then of course, kitsch made a comeback as good taste, tempered with a healthy dose of irony (the ironic mindset is a hideout for severe dissociation from the world). Think of the resurgence of kitsch in clothing (eg. Thrift store dress), in music (eg. Max Normal), art (eg. Tretchikoff Retrospective) and even in furniture and kitchen appliances ("It's so ugly just fell in love with it"). It's seen as a little iconoclastic, the sexy lowbrow, fucking like the masses while still showing superior taste as communicated by irony. But what it really belies is a misplaced nostalgia, or at least a nostalgia for a past one never really experienced, a place where mom made rusks and Cabbage worked the garden quietly. Or at least a yearning for a simpler world. This, I guess, is the real irony: Bad Taste symbolises Good Times.

I was quite charmed then, walking into Gabrielle Alberts recent show at blank, Fine Art. It was a collection of thrift store paintings by amateur artists, kitsch as all hell. I was charmed, not because it confirmed my notions above, but because it walked a fine line between them. The reason it pulled off was that I perceived a sincerity in it, and a respect for the objects. Without the irony, it came across more as an anthropological study of Sunday painters. It seemed to say that people really believe in the power of images to express emotions, be it lust, love for a canine, or the mysterious sublime of the Karoo, without resorting to a smug irony. And, in a sweet twist of irony, I yearned for that simpler world. Dammit.

Labels: Blank, gabrielle alberts, irony, kitsch

Labels: Blank, gabrielle alberts

Labels: Blank

On the one hand I really liked Jeremy Puren's opening at blank last night. It had many of the elements that charm me: humour, hipness, madness. He has a studio near mine, and to see him watering his art, had a dada absurdity to me that really hit the spot (the main part of his show was letters grown in grass). There was also the endearing patheticness of a few sad butternuts hanging around outside, uncertain sneers painted onto them.

On the other hand, the endearing patheticness maybe was overblown. Badly spelled handwritten signs and notes, along with (less obviously) badly painted fruit, is one of the easiest options to position yourself as an outsider. This can be an exceptionally funny strategy, as seen in David Shrigley's sad strange little man stuff. And it was funny in Jeremy's stuff too. But we've seen this strategy too many times, the cover has been blown. We know you have a university education, aren't pathetic and can afford to type signs and notes. Does positioning yourself as an outsider add any significant meaning to the work?

The pure fun of letting 28 clockwork mice run into the space, of growing grass and painting fruit, had a fantastic farmyard aesthetic anyway. No need to push the point.

My killjoy criticism aside, this exhibition is said to be of the evolving kind, and I would recommend seeing what other bizarre jumps of the imagination Jeremy Puren has in store.

(ps. if you are interested in the authentic endearingly pathetic, and what happens to it when it is exposed and commercialised take a look at Daniel Johnston's site, the gentrification of a legendary figure should make us wary of using the strategy.)

Labels: Blank, jeremy puren

Labels: Blank

I can't believe that the highlight of this show was another speech by Ronald Suresh Roberts. How is it possible, you may ask, that RSR is speaking at another opening at blank? Fuck, I would respond, alone knows. Why then was his speech, you could ask, the highlight? Because he at least, I would answer, is funny, original and smart. Even when he's pissed. And he knows the president. Oh, I would imagine you saying, so the show was crap. Yes, I would agree, my cat could put on a better curated show. Why, another possible question from you, are you reviewing it then? For the reason, I would reason, to put out the message that a show, even one about nihilism, inchoatity and idiosyncracy, needs to be a little funny, original or smart. Otherwise, no one is interested. Attracting people's interest surely is an important part of a show, even if it is nihilistic. Otherwise what's the point?

You end up looking like you are hiding behind some words in your title, hiding a complete lack of thought process, knowledge of what the words mean, and a general incompetence.

Oh, you might say, thanks.

My pleasure, at least there were pork viennas, a delicacy banned in my household.

Yes, yum, pork viennas. Mmmmm. Pork viennas. Yummy. Yes.

And blank, please can we see a stronger hand.

Labels: Blank, Ronald Suresh-Roberts

Labels: andrew lamprecht, Blank, Cape Town Biennale, jonathan garnham

Thanks to Lizza, for this fine review:

It's Biennale time again, and on this occasion the opening speech was a performance by Ronald Suresh Roberts of the speech he delivered at the launch of his book. His performance addressed the media war between the Press and the Party, in which Roberts sides with the Party. However, this performance was dwarfed by the scale of the current war in the actual media, which has reached new levels of ferocity over recent developments in the long story of the Minister of Health. All of which lent a perfect level of ineffectuality to the Biennale project. A highlight was Roberts's talent for repartee, which was put to the test by a veritable orchestra of cell phone rings going off in the vast arsenale of Blank Projects.

As we know from reading about fifty reviews on Venice in the last month, Biennale's are bound to have their celebrity moments, and this one was no exception. Besides Roberts himself, and the illustrious Mr Lamprecht who kindly stood in for Thabo Mbeki, I was amazed to see globetrotting critic Bianca Baldi looking quite well. Then celebrity chauffeur Sue Williamson cruised up to the gallery door to whisk away the artist previously known as Hairy. Almost everyone else who was there was famous in their own way. Even Max Wolpe was there.

Thanks to the organisers' sensitivity to the observance of Ramaddan in the Bo Kaap, nothing stronger than apple juice flowed, and consequently the crowd disappeared as soon as they could, leaving lots of apple juice for next time.


Check back later today, for a review of SMAC's latest offering, and the vicious bus ride of hell.

Labels: Blank, Cape Town Biennale

So this run of pretty confusing and, dare I say, idiosyncratic shows at Blank is continuing. In the series of one night shows curated by Lily Luz and Carrie Timlin, this was probably the oddest and most inscrutable. Andrew Lamprecht, theorist to the stars, was the artist this time. He claimed that it was a prelude to another show, a teaser. Which is fair enough. But I must admit I just didn't get it. The show consisted of a contract on the one wall with a man called Jacques Rousseau, apparently a poet, exchanging his soul for a carton of Marlboro Lights. A good exchange, I'd say, excepting the contract had not been signed yet. On the long wall was a series of photocopies of what seemed to be alchemical illustrations. On the third wall were the certified results of Andrew, Carrie and Lily's thankfully negative Aids tests. I just didn't follow the connections, unless it was purposefully inchoate. All I can say is either Andrew has jumped the shark with this one, letting his reputation carry him, or the follow up show is going to be an awesome penny-drop thing. I hope it's the latter.

Labels: andrew lamprecht, Blank

Labels: andrew lamprecht, Blank, listings

Wednesday night was one of those: twenty different openings but very little fun. Well three to be precise. We started at Bell-Roberts to get some of that fine fine Lourensford wine, which for some reason they've been stocking lately, and discovered some art inside. It turned out to be a series of paintings called Detached, by Mxolisi Dolla Sapeta, an artist from PE. It was kind of hard work, as I couldn't really squeeze out a theme, except some vague, tame urban issues (poor people, abused people). And also, even though the work had a bright graphic beauty, the painting itself was pretty shallow and clumsy. Maybe that's just what you get when you use acrylic. There was a good dose of bizarre humour, such as a man with a little dummy peepee, and a goat sucking a woman's breast, but it wasn't enough to keep me inside. I then had an argument with my girlfriend if the woman we had passed was Eris Silke, without realising she had come back outside and was standing behind me.


A quick run past Erdmann, but a long and boring speech was under construction, so onwards to blank, to see Gabi Ncgobo's Unwel’olude. Another show which left me a little conflicted. I liked the hair, which was used to form these very strong iconic images, a Pierneef (the centre piece), as well a bible, a gun, a bottle of Johnny Black and a penis. All which made niceish metaphors and questions(a hairy Pierneef? What does it mean to make a Pierneef out of black people's hair? Are we replacing the people in this picture bare of any humanity? A hairy revolver? What does this mean? etc). Until, on the third wall, there was three hairy ties, on glitter backgrounds. Qua? It stopped making sense, why those particular materials were being used. The hair is a good tactile material, but at what point does it become a signature style, bald of real significance.

Labels: Bell-Roberts, Blank, Gabi Ngcobo, Mxolisi Sapeta

Unwel'olude is artist and curator Gabi Ngcobo's second solo exhibition.

Unwelo'olude is a Zulu saying which translates literally as "may your hair grow longer".
The hair in the saying makes reference to life. The saying is articulated as a well-wisher to someone, usually on their birthday or when they have performed an outstanding deed. It means "long live" or "viva".

The exhibition features works made of Ngcobo's own hair as well as hair sourced from her friends and family. With this exhibition past, present and future become intertwined. The work is riddled by contradictions that reveal a sense of hope and confusion.

Opens: Wednesday 25 July 6PM
Closes: 3 August
blank projects
198 Buitengraght Street
Cape Town

Labels: Blank, Gabi Ngcobo, listings

I think an image that'll stay with me for life is Ed Young, getting shouted by the curator's mother. The poor guy couldn't get a word in edgeways. But the fucker probably did deserve the berating.
So here's the story: Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz are planning a series of one-night events at Blank. They are undergraduate students, and I think this is amazing initiative.
Carrie Timlin and Lily Luz didn't do many of the things expected from a curator. Like organise press, design an appealing flyer and buy booze. And didn't communicate fully with either the artist or gallerist. Not as amazing. Especially if you are using an artist's name such as Ed Young to bring attention to your project.

10:30 am. Ed Young gets irritated, and decides to not pitch up to the show. He turns off his phone.

5:25 pm. Robert Sloon gets a call from Jonathan Garnham (the gallerist), asking if he had seen Ed. Robert tells Jonathan he just left him at the Kimberly Hotel.

6:00 pm. Jonathan arrives at the bar, with rope. They drink beer. Ed Young is tied up. Ed is physically removed, and dragged into a car.

7:30 pm. Robert Sloon arrives to the exhibition to see general chaos. Carrie's mum is yelling at Ed. A surprising amount of people are milling around drinking beer and wine. Jonathan has stuck up the bill from the bar on the wall, so there is at least something to look at.

8:00 pm. The surrogate art work is burned.

8:30 pm. The thinning, but rowdy crowd trashes the gallery. Broken glass litters the floor. Wine stains the walls. Robert Sloon goes home to play with cat.

What more can be said?
Crap Show. Funny Story.

Labels: Blank, Carrie Timlin, Ed Young, Lily Luz, review