Mistakes Made Mutually: The Theatre of Mistakes

FeaturedMistakes Made Mutually: The Theatre of Mistakes

Theatre of Mistakes

Photo: copyright Lindsay Moran, The Theatre of Mistakes Archive

Revisiting a paper I wrote in 2009 after research with Jason E Bowman on the 1970s British performance collective The Theatre of Mistakes. This research also culminated in a set of ebooks on the collective created as part of a residency for Proboscis.

Mistakes Made Mutually

It would make a good novel, Anthony Howell said. The writer going between people who aren’t necessarily in contact, hearing what each one has to say, relaying the impressions of one to another, repeating opinion, being privy to multiple perspectives while individuals remain locked in their singular narratives of nostalgia or analysis. In short, the writer as a conduit for gossip.

The process of researching an entity as complex as Ting: The Theatre of Mistakes is well served by the notion of gossip as the subversive strategy of the excluded, as articulated by cultural theorist Irit Rogoff : “Gossip involves exchange not merely, not even mainly, of information, and not solely of understanding, but of point of view” (Gossip as Testimony – a Postmodern Signature). Professional relations within The Theatre of Mistakes were enhanced and complicated by interpersonal relationships that created ever-shifting dynamics. Some participants had remained friends; others hadn’t spoken in years. There was dissent, or silences; there was time and a death and a drifting apart. Gossip engages; it creates a mystique around its subjects. It occupies the spaces left by questions. Who threw the script someone else painstakingly typed into the fire? Who was ‘against agreement’? Who fell asleep while sat in the audience? What was the Secrets Piece?

This was always a company who knew its own value. Theirs is a history preserved in copious letters, program notes, scripts, posters, photographs, diagrams, drawings. The comb-bound book of The Street (1975) for instance is a blueprint for reading and recreating. It discloses a complex work: residents’ living rooms – sofas, rugs, televisions – re-located to the street; a chorus derived from snippets of overheard conversation; windows opened and closed triggered by actions below; people mirroring one another’s actions. However all this documentation is still only ever partial. It is participants’ and observers’ recollections that reveal connections between the real and the fictive. For instance: injured in a car accident during the Cambridge Poetry Festival where The Ting perform that April – Howard Tong returned to watch The Street and was quickly co-opted into performing again – a slow motion solo of a pedestrian knocked onto a car bonnet. Similarly, whilst a photograph of The Theatre of Mistakes’ Waterfall on the village green (1977 Silver Jubilee) depicts the watching crowd, it does not reveal that some respond by cheering, others by throwing apple cores. Peter Stickland recalls The Theatre of Mistakes was more popular abroad, so much so in Italy that a theatre manager doubled their fee – another ‘fact’ not legible in the documentation but one that explains the relative failure of American/British histories of performance to examine The Theatre of Mistakes’ legacy in depth.

In addition to using gossip and oral histories as strategies through which to interrogate The Theatre of Mistakes’ practice, Jason E Bowman and I also shared a desire to reflect its key principles: Mutuality, Chance, and Mistakes in the process of re-tracing its histories and their makers:

Mutuality. Anthony Howell, Fiona Templeton, and Mickey Greenall devise a Mutuality signature and stamp; there is a Manifesto of Mutuality. There are some exquisite Time Diagrams, coloured in gold and felt tip pen. The latter are Mickey Greenall’s work, Anthony is certain. Fiona is equally certain she made them. Mickey is no longer around to ask. In a sense it does not matter.

Chance. Choice by Chance, or die-throwing, is a conceptual presence from the inception of The Ting as a democratizing element and the preferred method of determining roles within the company. (The dice select Pat Murphy, Templeton, and Greenall to devise The Street and choose Templeton as its director, for example.) It’s perhaps as a result of sharing the responsibility for writing press releases and other promotional material that inconsistencies occurred in the naming of the ‘collective’ – variously called Ting, The Ting, The Ting: Theatre of Mistakes, The Theatre of Mistakes.

For the artist, chance functions to eliminate the ‘hand’ or the Modernist mark; it nullifies personality; frees the mind from clichéd associations by recognizing the potential of randomness: words placed alongside one another in unlikely combinations; images created by accident.

Published in 1971, The Dice Man the autobiography of Luke Rinehart (MD) – himself a fiction created by George Cockcroft – investigates whether it is possible or desirable to break down the self into a multitude of selves by using die in the place of free will. It asks: is the loss of a coherent, stable self (schizophrenia) a position that can be maintained? Or, does that adherence to instability constitute a new coherent self? In being no-one, can we be anyone? In The Theatre of Mistakes’ Going (1977), each performer enacts all the other performers. Is there still a narrative if everyone is the same person? Is there still drama if emotions such as anger cannot be attributed to any one ‘character’ but are performed as part of a formal sequence? (These concerns also characterize Howell’s unpublished novel Lost Farm which sets out not to reveal the inner thoughts of any of its characters.) Yet the formality of Going, this elaborate deconstruction of form, is complicated again by context. When it is performed in the Pennsylvania State Penitentiary, Glenys Johnson says, prisoners read it as the rejection of their continuous re-submittance of applications for parole.

Mistakes. Traditionally, the performance mistake might comprise the missed cue; lack of synchronization; failure to enter or exit at the correct moment; limb raised to an incorrect height; faulty rhythm. It makes a comedy or a tragedy of technique: stumbled pirouettes, flat notes, collapsing sets, jokes without punchlines….   A mistake can be corrected/ atoned for/concealed.

The mistake, whether accidental or deliberate, creates a rupture in form. Assuming form is rarely read until it is broken, The Theatre of Mistakes were practiced at looking for the mistake, at asking: what are the best errors to make to highlight structure? The historiography of the mistake in their work alters. It begins as the only thing they can say; to being seriously on the surface (Homage to Pietro Longhi); to becoming the fully rehearsed mistake which has retreated from the surface (Going); to the mistake that occurs in the thinking before the work has even been devised (Homage to Morandi).

Equally, the act of research, of collating and ordering, of selection and interpretation is riddled with chance elements (Howard Tong and Miranda Payne live a ten-minute walk away from one another in London and didn’t know it; Christina Toren and Signe Howell are now both Professors of Anthropology; Lindsay Moran joins Facebook a couple of days before he is looked for); mutual creations; and mistakes or, rather, contradictions which threaten a singular narrative of The Theatre of Mistakes. The ‘mistakes’ in memories, (again, whether deliberate or accidental), the mis-remembered, highlight the futility of attempting to create one. So rather than writing a biography which begins something like this: Anthony Howell instigated Ting inspired by his interest in chance and seeing Robert Wilson in New York; his interrogation of systemic art; conversations with his then wife, Norwegian anthropologist, Signe Lie who introduced him to Norse Ting myth of meetings where weapons were left outside a ring of stones and anything could be said. Pat Murphy recalls Robert Janz inviting her “to a kind of inaugural meeting of the group Anthony Howell was organizing.” She thinks this was in July 1974….. Instead of that story, there are several competing narratives, equally valid: Anthony Howell and Signe Lie created The Ting; Fiona Templeton co-founded The Theatre of Mistakes; Anthony Howell and Howard Tong developed The Ting conceptually; the Ting’s early adherence to minimalism is due in part to lack of funds hence its aesthetic develops out of the quotidian: kilims Lie and Howell bring back from their travels deployed as props; vehicles people drive to Purdies Farm are the substance of Amikam Toren’s Ballet for Cars; Lie’s pregnancy inspires Birth Ballet Chorale (1974). And so on.

A focus on the mistake, the contradiction, the fault line is something The Theatre of Mistakes applied to their own form. In one of Anthony Howell’s many notebooks, there is a list written circa 1975. He recollects it transpired after a mutual group critique. It reads:

Miranda – Not reliable

Anthony – Dismissive and cursory

Mickey- Lazy

Fiona – Irritatingly meticulous

Howard – Too obsequious

Lindsay – Moody

Anita – Too young

Again, these scribbled notes destabilise official narratives of The Theatre of Mistakes and encourage other, more fictive, readings of the performers. From conversations with participants and observers, characters emerge. Poet and former Royal Ballet dancer Anthony Howell is always the protagonist: disciplined (see notation of The Waterfall); dictatorial; a generous mentor; a man who wrote impassioned letters (see Rape of the Mind); spatially aware; obsessive (see Orpheus and Hermes) depending on whose narrative you choose. Fiona Templeton: also a poet; the most conceptually sophisticated; influenced by the literary traditions of OuLiPo and Perec; the really beautiful one with the waist-length hair; adept at creating games. Peter Stickland the rebel architect who prefers not to rock the boat; Miranda Payne, a muse with a talent for invisibility who floats in and out of the company; Lindsay Moran, serious, pushes physicality to the limit; Mikey Greenall: all color and flamboyance; Anita Urquart: a hairdresser out of her league; Anthony’s mother Deborah: formidable, the first female veterinary student in the UK; performs in early Ting works at the London Film-Makers Co-Op and at Michael McKinnon’s studio dressed in full hunting gear…

The other ‘character’ that features heavily in conversations around The Theatre of Mistakes is Deborah’s farm, Purdies at Hazeley Heath, Hartley Witney in Hampshire. There are many glimpses of Purdies in photographs. For a decade, it is the site of intense periods of creativity. In the early years, it is the venue for weekend events as artists visit from London, creating and documenting artworks. Later, it’s where works are honed prior to autumn touring. Purdies: a large, Jacobean farmhouse with a long drive and stables; all the animals are female; Howard and Mickey sunbathe naked by a pool flecked with goose droppings; a hot summer of no rain and forests on fire; Anthony walks the Dalmatians; lying in hammocks strung beneath trees; there are performances in fields through the night to 2a.m., 4a.m.; cows for audiences; rehearsals in the barn; exercises at dawn; a string sculpture threatened by storms; playing shove ha’penny in the local pub; waiting for Anita to finish getting ready; an impromptu set when furniture sits on the lawn waiting for removal; Glenys finds a dead mouse in the toaster; Pat Murphy sits in “a big wooden barn with spaces between the slats of wood, so that the horse cantering in the field outside, would strobe past like a zoetrope or some early movie machine”; a mare giving birth; Miranda lives in a tent outside as she finds the house too claustrophobic; Deborah dives into the pool wearing nothing but a pair of nylons; signing on; fences to mend, trips to the cash and carry; staying up late to do the budgets; walking in huge circles on the local cricket pitch; flared trousers so wide Peter catches his foot in them and breaks an ankle; Fiona wearing a man’s suit in rehearsal; villagers calling them ‘Tesco rejects’ in an era when Tesco is a byword for scum; banned by The Cricketers Arms after a dance appears to cause rainfall.

By encouraging the mistake, the chance element, the creation of a mutually conceived narrative that does not rely on consensus but that welcomes contradiction, the anecdote, the perceived, the invented, the dreamt, and the distorted, we are able to contextualise The Theatre of Mistakes in a broader variety of ways (through an analysis of its audiences; the interface of its participants; its influences and legacies, and so on). Evoked, rather than defined, circuitous rather than linear, The Theatre of Mistakes, like all good gossip, refuses to be contained.

Marie-Anne Mancio             London 2009

Immersione nella Roma del vizio

Immersione nella Roma del vizio

Because you can never have too many books on Caravaggio…

Parkstone Art

Michelangelo Merisi (detto Il Caravaggio) fu senza dubbio uno dei più grandi pittori del XVIIo secolo. Benché Caravaggio sia stato famoso per il suo chiaroscuro e i suoi giocchi di luce, era anche riconosciuto per la sua vita tumultuosa. Cortigiano della Roma degli anni 1600, nervoso, sempre pronto a litigare, Caravaggio fu costretto a fuggire dopo l’assassinio di Ranuccio Tommasini durante un gioco. Da qua, comincia una vita sregolata, passando da Napoli, Malta o ancora Palermo. Profilo dell’artista ribelle.

Con le opere di Caravaggio facciamo un salto nel tempo. Ci ritroviamo nei bassifondi, nel volto nascosto della Roma dell’inizio del XVIIo secolo. Caravaggio ci mostra un’aspetto della capitale italiana molto diverso da quello che il Classicismo, ereditato da Michelangelo e Raffaello, ci aveva trasmesso. Con  Caravaggio (e anche se ha dipinto numerose opere religiose), immergiamo nel lato nero, nella Roma del vizio, della decadenza, della povertà.Testimono di una…

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Sex, Sin and Scandal in Georgian London

FeaturedSex, Sin and Scandal in Georgian London

Stella Tillyard has written of the cult of celebrity that developed in eighteenth century London, partly as a consequence of the proliferation of entertainment spaces and liberal publishing laws. Gossip became a currency and artists used their talents to create visual statements of their sitters’ allure (though portraits of aristocratic women exhibited at the Royal Academy were done so without reference to the sitters’ names). Amongst the most beautiful were the Gunning sisters Maria and Elizabeth who left Ireland in 1750 to secure husbands in London. Allegedly, 8,000 people turned up to see them at Vauxhall Gardens. The Duke of Hamilton was so taken with Elizabeth he insisted on marrying her the night they met; Maria married the Earl of Coventry.

Another woman who inspired devotion was courtesan Kitty Fisher (artist Nathaniel Hone puns here on her name: the cat fishes in a goldfish bowl in this 1765 portrait, courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, London). She staged a riding accident in Hyde Park as a way of displaying her pretty legs… read Marcia Pointon’s fascinating paper on her.

These women’s paths crossed on at least one occasion when Lady Coventry (Maria Gunning) asked Kitty Fisher for the name of her dress maker. “You had better ask Lord Coventry,” Kitty Fisher replied. “He gave me the dress as a gift.”


Hotel Alphabet Caravaggio Tour Planned for 2015

Caravaggio's masterpiece 'The Beheading of St. John' altarpiece in Malta
Caravaggio’s masterpiece ‘The Beheading of St. John’ altarpiece in Malta

Hotel Alphabet is planning a Caravaggio tour for 2015 that will replicate the artist’s journey from Milan to Malta: an incredible opportunity to see some of his major works and the landscapes through which he travelled. More information to follow but to be added to the mailing list email enquiriesha@gmail.com

Still Lives to Die For

FeaturedStill Lives to Die For

There is, quite rightly, a lot of fuss in London at the moment over the National Gallery’s show on Barocci touted as “the most important painter youve never heard of.” Sadly this is still the case for so many female artists of the Renaissance and Baroque era who rarely make it into the history books despite being feted in their time. (There are depressingly few in London’s National Gallery: no Artemesia Gentileschi, no Lavinia Fontana, no Sofonisba Anguissola and so on….)

One of my favourites is Milanese artist Fede Galizia (1578-1630) who was trained by her miniaturist father and was already considered a skilled artist by the age of 12. Ignore the inscription in her Portrait of Paolo Morigia (1592-95, oil on canvas, 88 x 79 cm,Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, Milan) it was a later addition, but focus on the hand and the bravura

Fede Galizia Portrait of Paolo Morigia painting visible in this detail: note how the room is reflected in the glass? DetailDid Caravaggio see her work I wonder? Certainly Morigia was so impressed with his portrait he went on to become Galizia’s patron.

Though she made many portraits, two thirds of her catalogued paintings are still lives and she popularised the genre in Italy. Her works are typically small scale like this White Ceramic Bowl with Peaches and Red and Blue Plums (c. 1610, oil on panel, 30 x 42 cm, Silvano Lodi Collection, Campione). They may not have the complex symbolism of Dutch Golden Age paintings but they are superb at evoking textures – the softness of the peaches, the wisp of a leaf, the hard edges of the ceramic bowl – and are incredibly sensuous.

cer_bowlIt’s the same with this stunning still-life (1607, Oil on panel, 31 x 42 cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York). It is tiny but with so much attention to detail. See how that apple is turning brown as it’s exposed to the air?

Still-Life, 1607Or this one (nd, Oil on panel, 28 x 42 cm, Private collection) where a succulent cherry is about to drop from the bowl, every bit as animate as the butterfly in mid-flight.

stillifeThe composition so balanced that your gaze flits from one side to the other, caught in the tension of the moment.


Mary Seacole

NPG 6856; Mary Jane Seacole (nÈe Grant) by Albert Charles ChallenThink of Victorian nurses and Florence Nightingale comes to mind but London’s National Portrait Gallery holds a tiny portrait of another celebrated nurse who fought far harder for recognition: Jamaican born, Mary Jane Seacole. Seacole (nee Grant) (1805-1881) was mixed race (her mother was a Jamaican nurse; her father a Scottish soldier) and experienced discrimination in Victorian England. She accompanied relatives to London when she was young and later recalled:

“Strangely enough, some of the most vivid of my recollections are the efforts of the London street-boys to poke fun at my and my companion’s complexion. I am only a little brown – a few shades duskier than the brunettes whom you all admire so much; but my companion was very dark, and a fair (if I can apply the term to her) subject for their rude wit”

On her return to Jamaica, she studied Creole medicinal art with her mother and, before marrying Edwin Seacole in 1836, travelled widely including to Cuba, Haiti, and the Bahamas. Widowed by 1844, Seacole continued to travel and soon became an expert in treating cholera. When there was  a huge outbreak of cholera during the Crimean War, she went back to England in 1854 to ask the War Office to send her to Crimea. However it was the inexperienced Florence Nightingale who was sent and Seacole was twice rejected when she asked to join her. Undeterred, she travelled to Balaklava independently and set up her own hospital (the British Hotel) as well as treating the wounded directly on the battlefield.

In 1856 a British soldier wrote to The Times complaining that while Florence Nightingale had become famous, the contribution made by Mary Seacole was in danger of being forgotten. He was probably right because unlike the many records of Nightingale, this little oil on panel portrait (measuring a mere 24 x 18 cm) from 1869 is the sole image we have of Seacole. The artist Albert Charles Challen depicts her wearing the three medals she was awarded for her service. Aside from that nod to her professionalism, the portrait is wonderfully human, giving a hint of the warmth that led soldiers to nickname her “Mother Seacole.” Compare it with the more formal portraits of Florence Nightingale in the same room (Room 22).

Seacole also published an autobiography – Wonderful Adventures of Mrs Seacole in Many Lands (1857) which you can read online. Here’s an extract from Chapt XIII:
“I have never been long in any place before I have found my practical experience in the science of medicine useful. Even in London I have found it of service to others. And in the Crimea, where the doctors were so overworked, and sickness was so prevalent, I could not be long idle; for I never forgot that my intention in seeking the army was to help the kind-hearted doctors, to be useful to whom I have ever looked upon and still regard as so high a privilege.But before very long I found myself surrounded with patients of my own, and this for two simple reasons. In the first place, the men (I am speaking of the “ranks” now) had a very serious objection to going into hospital for any but urgent reasons, and the regimental doctors were rather fond of sending them there; and, in the second place, they could and did get at my store sick-comforts and nourishing food, which the heads of the medical staff would sometimes find it difficult to procure. These reasons, with the additional one that I was very familiar with the diseases which they suffered most from, and successful in their treatment (I say this in no spirit of vanity), were quite sufficient to account for the numbers who came daily to the British Hotel for medical treatment.

That the officers were glad of me as a doctress and nurse may be easily understood. When a poor fellow lay sickening in his cheerless hut and sent down to me, he knew very well that I should not ride up in answer to his message empty-handed. And although I did not hesitate to charge him with the value of the necessaries I took him, still he was thankful enough to be able to purchase them. […] How often have I felt sad at the sight of poor lads who in England thought attending early parade a hardship, and felt harassed if their neckcloths set awry, or the natty little boots would not retain their polish, bearing, and bearing so nobly and bravely, trials and hardships to which the veteran campaigner frequently succumbed. Don’t you think, reader, if you were lying, with parched lips and fading appetite, thousands of miles from mother, wife, or sister, loathing the rough food by your side, and thinking regretfully of that English home where nothing that could minister to your great need would be left untried – don’t you think that you would welcome the familiar figure of the stout lady whose bony horse has just pulled up at the door of your hut, and whose panniers contain some cooling drink, a little broth, some homely cake, or a dish of jelly or blanc-mange – don’t you think, under such circumstances, that you would heartily agree with my friend Punch‘s remark:–

“That berry-brown face, with a kind heart’s trace
Impressed on each wrinkle sly,
Was a sight to behold, through the snow-clouds rolled
Across that iron sky.” ”


Courtly Love: fact or fiction?


The term l’amour courtois was coined by Gaston Paris in 1883 in the journal Romania but the practice is believed to have developed around 1099 in France. Scholars disagree about its origins (and even its existence).

Did it emerge as a humanist reaction to the puritannical Catholic Church of the early Middle Ages, an era dominated by prudishness, patriarchy and theocracy? As such, did it exalt the feminine as a force for good in contrast to the chauvinistic first and second estates? And therefore were the Church’s early C13th attempts to suppress it as heresy a move to quash this “sexual revolution”? Or was courtly love part of the Church’s effort to civilize late C11th Germanic feudal codes? Or did the practice of arranged marriages leave people desirous of expressing romantic love in another form? (In the C12th, literature in French was referred to as “romance” to differentiate it from “real” literature in Latin).

Courtly love  certainly existed as a literary convention in the majority of Middle Age authors (e.g. Chaucer, Sir Thomas Malory, Dante, Chretien de Troyes, Marie de France…) Typical courtly love motifs included: love for a married person seemingly unattainable; exquisite behaviour by all lovers; an emphasis not on the sexual conquest but on the love conquest; the total self-sacrifice of the wife.

“The “courtly love” relationship is modelled on the feudal relationship between a knight and his liege lord. The knight serves his courtly lady (love service) with the same obedience and loyalty which he owes to his liege lord. She is in complete control of the love relationship, while he owes her obedience and submission (a literary convention that did not correspond to actual practice!) The knight’s love for the lady inspires him to do great deeds, in order to be worthy of her love or to win her favor. Thus “courtly love” was originally construed as an ennobling force whether or not it was consummated, and even whether or not the lady knew about the knight’s love or loved him in return.

“The “courtly love” relationship typically was not between husband and wife, not because the poets and the audience were inherently immoral, but because it was an idealized sort of relationship that could not exist within the context of “real life” medieval marriages. In the middle ages, marriages amongst the nobility were typically based on practical and dynastic concerns rather than on love. The idea that a marriage could be based on love (as in the “Franklin’s Tale“) was a radical notion. But the audience for romance was perfectly aware that these romances were fictions, not models for actual behavior. The adulterous aspect that bothers many 20th-century readers was somewhat beside the point, which was to explore the potential influence of love on human behavior.

Social historians such as Eric Köhler and Georges Duby have hypothesized that “courtly love” may have served a useful social purpose: providing a model of behavior for a class of unmarried young men that might otherwise have threatened social stability. Knights were typically younger brothers without land of their own (hence unable to support a wife) who became members of the household of the feudal lords whom they served. One reason why the lady in the courtly love relationship is typically older, married and of higher social status than the knight may be because she was modelled on the wife of the feudal lord, who might naturally become the focus of the young, unmarried knights’ desire. Köhler and Duby posit that the literary model of the courtly love relationship may have been invented in part to provide these young men with a model for appropriate behavior, teaching them to sublimate their desires and to channel their energy into socially useful behavior (love service rather than wandering around the countryside, stealing or raping women like the knight in the “Wife of Bath’s” tale).” (courtesy Dr. Debora B. Schwartz, 1998-2002)

Whether or not courtly love existed beyond fiction, it was certainly mocked in the satirical late C12th Latin text The Art of Courtly Love by Andreas Capellanus. It cites The Twelve Rules of Love:

1. Thou shalt avoid avarice like the deadly pestilence and shalt embrace its opposite.

2. Thou shalt keep thyself chaste for the sake of her whom thou lovest.

3. Thou shalt not knowingly strive to break up a correct love affair that someone else is engaged in.

4. Thou shalt not chose for thy love anyone whom a natural sense of shame forbids thee to marry.

5. Be mindful completely to avoid falsehood.

6. Thou shalt not have many who know of thy love affair.

7. Being obedient in all things to the commands of ladies, thou shalt ever strive to ally thyself to the service of Love.

8. In giving and receiving love’s solaces let modesty be ever present.

9. Thou shalt speak no evil.

10. Thou shalt not be a revealer of love affairs.

11. Thou shalt be in all things polite and courteous.

12. In practicing the solaces of love thou shalt not exceed the desires of thy lover.

The notion of courtly love was embraced by many artists, not least the Pre-Raphaelites, currently on display at Tate Britain until Jan 13th.


Metamorphosis: Titian 2012 (National Gallery)

The National Gallery is exhibiting its three Titian Dianas together for the first time since the C18th: Diana and Callisto, 1556-9; Diana and Actaeon, 1556-9, and The Death of Actaeon, 1559-75 and has asked artists, choreographers, poets, and composers to respond to their themes of voyeurism, metamorphosis, violence, seduction, resulting in poems, three new ballets (Royal Ballet), and art works.

A superb idea on the face of it (especially given that Titian thought of his paintings as poesie anyway) and as an art historian, writer, and ballet lover, this should have been my perfect exhibition. So why was the end result so disappointing? The artists involved all have pedigree: Chris Ofili, Conrad Shawcross, Mark Wallinger, as do the seven choreographers and the three composers…. but with the exception of the poets there is not a single woman artist here. Are there no female choreographers, no female composers? Why not Jenny Saville, Susan Hiller, Sophie Calle, Vanessa Beecroft? Does it matter?

Well, yes. Particularly given the context of the National Gallery where you struggle to find any work by women artists they’re so under represented. (And I think the acquisitions policy should consider this.) In Metamorphosis: Titian 2012 even Mark Wallinger – an artist I’ve admired since A Real Work of Art – disappoints. Putting a series of real-life Dianas in a bath and making us into contemporary Actaeons (Norman Bates comes to mind) in order to highlight the voyeurism implicit in Titian is a good idea…. or would have been, had it been made in the 1970s at the beginnings of feminist art historian practice and scholarship (think Hannah Wilke, think Nochlin, think Laura Mulvey) or even in the 1980s post-The Guerilla Girls. But now? It’d have been more interesting to see a male nude in there. Unless it’s a very sly dig at the show’s sponsors Credit Suisse, given the frequency with which bankers (used to?) grace lap dancing clubs, hostess clubs etc.


So yes, the ballets look good (Wallinger’s set design in particular), and Ofili’s Metamorphoses paintings convey shape-shifting and Shawcross’ re-imagined industrial robot Trophy has a kind of monumental quality but given the show had a female curator in Minna Moore-Ede, it feels like a wasted opportunity.

Grayson Perry The Vanity of Small Differences

FeaturedGrayson Perry The Vanity of Small Differences

The Agony in the Car Park

Newcomers to contemporary art often complain it’s daunting (one of my students recently applauded the value of “collective brainstorming”  to arrive at some kind of understanding) so it’s very satisfying to be able to recommend Grayson Perry’s The Vanity of Small Differences at Victoria Miro. Proof that contemporary art can be accessible and sophisticated.

Perry’s 6 tapestries were partly inspired by Hogarth’s darkly comical The Rake’s Progress (1732-33). They tell the story of Tim (rather than Tom) Rakewell’s attempts to transcend his working class origins. Our geeky anti-hero – Sunderland boy makes good – goes to university, marries a middle-class girl from Tunbridge Wells (a den of sexual depravity in Restoration England but now home to Disgusted Of Middle England), sells his software business to Richard Branson, evades tax, buys a mansion in the Cotswolds, has a mid-life crisis, marries a leggy blonde called Amber, drives a Ferrari – too fast – and dies in the ensuing crash (car, not stock market). In my version, Tim’s trophy widow keeps his ashes in a Hirst-designed diamond-encrusted casket. Throughout, his progress is mirrored by the Hogarthian dogs: sometimes hybrid breeds, yapping or growling or ripping like Cerberus…England’s gone to the dogs.

Each tapestry is interwoven with quotations, texts, characters encountered during the course of Perry’s “taste safari” for Channel 4’s three-part TV series entitled (with a nod to Kenny Everett?) In The Best Possible Taste in which he immersed himself in the rituals of the working, middle, and upper classes. Part One saw him donning fake tan and big hair to go on the lash with a group of Sunderland girls where he learned the difference between tacky and classy dressing: it’s tits or legs, never both.

There are several similarities between Hogarth and Perry – their incisive use of humour; working class origins; an emphasis on Englishness; their theatricality; the use of visual and verbal puns; the references to other artworks within their own work (the tapestry titles give you a clue The Adoration of the Cage Fighters, The Agony in the Car Park, The Expulsion from Number 8 Eden Close, The Annunciation of the Virgin Deal, Lamentation; there are nods to Sigmund Freud, Van Eyck, Rogier van der Weyden, Mantegna, Gainsborough et al). They also share an interest in taste.  The Rake’s Progress anticipates Hogarth’s glorious Marriage a La Mode series where the artist railed against the British taste for French and Italian fashions (though this didn’t prevent him from using French engravers); in The Vanity of Small Differences Perry confronts our comparable class snobberies: everything from a love of designer labels to a suspicion of art. Perry lampoons the upper classes in The Upper Class at Bay or an endangered species brought down but reminds us: no matter how rich Tim becomes, he will never ever be one of them and, oh the irony, many of them  – like Hogarth’s Earl Squanderfield – are skint.

At Victoria Miro on Thursday night there was bashful laughter when Perry (fabulously attired in frock and lippy by the way) spoke about “the guilt of the middle-classes.” Yes, they (you? us?)  with their multiple coffee-making machines, dinner parties of Jamie Oliver meals and inherent paradoxes – recycling bins as a kind of trade-off for the environmental unfriendliness of the obligatory Aga. How ironic – again – that the eighteenth century poor recoiled in horror from rye and wholemeal breads, aspiring to the basic white loaf of the rich.

Grayson Perry at Victoria Miro Photo: Paul McCormick

I asked Perry about empathy. Hogarth betrays no sympathy for any of his characters in The Rake’s Progress – even the hapless Sarah is at fault for being such a doormat (or what psychobabble would label an enabler). Perry could have been cruel but there’s genuine warmth in his work (compare it to Paula Rego’s equally superb take on Hogarth’s Marriage a la Mode for instance which is more disturbing than the original). Perry’s response was that he didn’t want to repeat Hogarth. That would have been boring. He wanted to confront his own prejudices about taste; prejudices, he admits, that may derive from the middle-class art world. He  says he feels “very comfortable” in that milieu now – perhaps Hogarth never did given the Academy’s snobbery about his “vulgar” subjects. There’s a chameleon-like quality to Perry. I suspect you could put him in any situation and he’d instantly see how to behave and that only comes with empathy.

Richard Godwin enacts a good semiotic analysis of The Annunciation of the Virgin Deal http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/visual-arts/perrys-portrait-of-bourgeois-britain-7830941.html  and it’s clear Perry uses contemporary symbols – the i-phone, the tweeter – to question societal attitudes to communication and consumerism. But aside from the richness of their content the tapestries are also beautiful as objects. Epic in scale (200 x 400 cm), their colours are intensely vibrant; they’re sophisticated in their use of pattern. See how the fragments of text yard working families loop into waves in The Agony in the Car Park – like relics lost at sea.  You just have to watch Perry draw in In The Best Possible Taste to see he’s a draughtsman. With a few deft lines and a squiggle of colour, he captures an entire persona.

There are many parallels between the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries (the so-called social problems of alcoholism, the cult of celebrity, the increased dissemination of information through the media, the widening gap between the haves and have-nots, even plagiarism). On the whole though, the eighteenth century was a time of prosperity and of slavery-built empire. (Bizarrely the English were lauded for being the cleanest people in Europe after the Dutch.) And what it didn’t occur to me to ask Perry is: is a tripartite division of class still relevant? Or is there a fourth “class” of generations of unemployed who are evolving their own taste and if so what is it?

Perry chose his medium carefully. Traditionally, tapestries were the preserve of the very wealthy. They were hung on walls to provide decoration and to insulate those cold castles. Relatively portable, they suited the itinerant lifestyle of the lords of the manor. Hogarth did something similar when he made oil paintings. He wanted the English to buy paintings that reflected contemporary life. He was disappointed.  Though the engravings were hugely popular with the middle-classes, the oil paintings had to be sold at a reduced rate. Those who could afford them couldn’t quite bring themselves to accept these were subjects for painting. I don’t think Perry will have the same problem.


Melaneia Warwick Nest


Melaneia Warwick, Nest iv, (2011) 39 x 30 inches (framed) charcoal, chalk, household varnish on paper

Drawing is a good way of thinking about Melaneia Warwick’s Nest works, not just because they are in themselves very skillfully drawn but because they also draw you in. The Nest series combines two unlikely elements – a redundant bird’s nest of pegs and hessian and a discarded, plastic doll – and immediately they create narratives.

In Nest i the headless doll appears to be clutching and falling. It has tumbled from its nest in front of your very eyes, its little hand slips from the grip of a frayed root end just out of reach. The black hole where its head should be is like a screaming mouth. In Nest iii, the same doll appears sturdier, more self-sufficient. The nest is gone and whilst the frayed and winding root – like an umbilical cord – remains, its a cord that’s been ripped free.

This violence is there in the paint, in the drips and scrapes of the surface, in the roughly smudged charcoal and in Nest ii. Here the empty nest is both visceral and wounded, animated in vibrant pinky-reds and bold greens. The mood is different again in Nest iv where the whited-out outline of a peg in the foreground is like a memory that hasn’t quite faded.

Nest is still life that refuses to stay still.

See Nest at Hotel Alphabet here