Art, The Game. How many levels before you run out of lives?
A couple of artists told me that the art world is a game. I suppose it has many levels of participation and many foes along the way. The real question is: Are there any rules? What are the rules? Are all the rules the same for everyone? How many lives do I have?
On last night’s quest I had to run the gauntlet of four types of enemy, battling my way past the old vanguard of upper middle class Catalans, as typified by cava served in old-style, wide-brimmed champagne glasses. Then I had to put on the cloak of invisibility to try to sneak past a potter whose work I had critiqued (and criticised) a couple of weeks ago. Next through the forest of luvvies who had plenty of space to view the art with a cause, but nonetheless stood chatting with their backs to it. And at last on to the final quest of hunting down an artist I know and catching up on the gossip. In his personal adventure he’d recently jumped ship and I was keen to know why.
Quest One: Ricardo Álvarez’s show “Suburbia” at Galeria Alonso Vidal. I’d received my mission details through Facebook and this was a new gallery for me. Yes, in 8 years in Barcelona there are still galleries I have never been to. This year I plan to rectify that situation. The attraction of the art here was simple — good draughtsmanship, with an interesting juxtaposition of styles. In the background, a slightly cutesy, nostalgic painting of a house, or the inside of an office, or a railway cutting. In the foreground, as a separate image, a monochrome drawing of a character or two, usually with some deep and rather sad emotion. All this set against a canvas of grey. The two elements serve to deliver an overwhelming feeling of wistfulness, melancholy, a slight trepidation. Neither one thing nor the other, the juxtaposition of the parts tells a story with a history, but one where the memories are more clear than the current reality, which is best forgotten. Nonetheless, this is art for the drawing room, art to be viewed together, with a friend, a lover. But not discussed. Art to bring an atmosphere to the evening, an evening of drinking whiskey, of sitting quietly together. A point of departure for the soul. These paintings resonate with me as they remind me of photos of Switzerland, where I was born. The backdrop images are those photos, of an unreal time forgotten except in created memories. The foreground images, even though they are less distinct, represent the present looking back. Failed relationships, broken relationships, lost relationships. Longing for what was, and knowing that what is will never be.
I would have happily stayed all evening pondering these works, but duty called and I rode off on my quest with the intention of seeing more art. Núria Guinovart’s “Intencions” at Àmbit Gallery were less clear. Trendy concrete paintings in muted and earthy tones. One artist friend seemed to think that this was new or novel or interesting. It was none of these. It was perfectly competent wall art, designed to be hung in the corridor of a financial consulting firm. I felt as if I had taken a wrong turn in the game. There was nothing I could see or do in the room to get me to the next level. But suddenly I found myself talking about my writing, indeed this very blog, with the very artist whose work I had reviewed at this very gallery a couple of weeks ago. And then I realised I had unlocked a whole new level.
I had to keep my wits about me, remember the dangerous route that had gotten me here, and stand my ground. We got to talking about how artists have to position themselves in the market. How they must sell their work for high prices if they are to make a living. How they must play the game, because the art world is a game. And they must find a balance between what they love doing and making things that will sell. And selling at prices that normal people cannot afford. And because I’m English, and polite, and because this was real life and I didn’t want to get punched in the face for real, I nodded and agreed and saw that what she was saying made sense. But the art I make isn’t a compromise. I don’t make it for other people. I make it for me. I have so often tried to think of ways of making art that would sell. I live here in Barcelona after all. Sell to tourists, to locals, to the foreigners who drift in and out of the city. But I just can’t seem to do it. I have these ideas, but they don’t fit with me. And so, with a couple of swooshes of my sword, I was away from this danger.
But I had hardly taken two paces when I bumped into another artist who gave me some advice about how to get a show. You have to hold back, not send your work to galleries, put a piece in a group show, wait to be discovered. In other words, I thought, it’s all about dumb luck. Or personal connections. I really do feel sometimes that I am in this video game for real, though I’m not sure if I have unlimited lives, or if I have to find my way through the labyrinth and remember where the goblin attacked me last time I was killed before having to start again. It the recurring nightmare. This time I’ll get a bit further on through the twists and turns, and sure as eggs is eggs, I’m going to be sucked up and spitten out. And yet I find the game so compelling I have to start again. And again.
And again. On to Galeria Joan Prats to see “Altamira” by Caio Reisewitz. Here there was space to breathe. To run free. This was not art for the cool kids, this was art for… people who don’t want to be cool, but don’t want to look at the art either. No matter that the photos are by an award winning artist. No matter that the photos are of trees that will soon be lost to a hydro-electric development. No matter that the people standing around really don’t care. To be fair, I suppose I don’t care too much either, or else I might have signed a petition, if there had been one. There wasn’t. Frankly, from the Facebook invitation, I wasn’t expecting much of this exhibition, and I wasn’t disappointed. I didn’t even stay for one of those trendy new Epidor beers. I had places to go, people to kill. See. People to see.
So the final stop on the evening’s quest was a collective exhibition (a group show, in truth) called “Encuentros”. And what did I find? Well, in all honesty, I was a little disappointed, but that’s only because I’ve been to as many openings at Victor Lope as possible since he moved downtown. You should definately go. And I was really excited about seeing some work by Frank Plant in a new context, as he’s just jumped ship from 3Punts. I think this is a great move, as Plant’s work really sits well with the other artists here. There’s a level of maturity, of exploration, of great things still to come with all of these artists. These are artists who have something to say, and who are not frightened of getting tongue-tied saying it. They are playing the game one painting at a time, trying to work out what comes next, what the next level might be. They might lose a fight here, loose a life there. They might crash and burn. But they still play on. And Plant’s “Me and You”, in which every wave of every curve of every line, every hard steel line, subtly brings life to pairs of dancers, epitomises this call. Lost in their own world, lost in time. Lost in love or lust. They dance for all eternity, never ageing, never leaving their spot. Diaz Sosa’s Huerfanos de Babel series takes us all to a place we’d rather not go, but to which we all belong in some sense or other. Our personal lack of direction makes us complicit in our own destruction. Requiring close inspection were the Antropomórfico digital collages of Yido, after which you can sit back and bathe in wave after wave of embossed line from Moros. As a group show it didn’t quite do it for me. Like the promise of a new shoot ‘em up, but with with the same old guns, the same old prey. But go and see if you can’t slay some of your personal demons, collect some gold coins and buy yourself a new life. For just one more go. This time you’ll beat the level. This time you’ll get to the finish, the gold at the end of the rainbow.
And then take yourself back to Galeria Alonso Vidal for the after dinner conversation. Just a couple of friends and the whiskey. And get lost in what might have been before you wake up in the morning and have to do it all over again.
