neon lit city
your broken teeth don’t detract
from your winning smile
Despite the ticket server crashing (probably was put together in the 70s by Kraftwerk themselves), I managed to get tickets for Kraftwerk at the Tate Modern in February. So excited by this. People who say they are cold or emotionless I think just don’t get it. Neon Lights is one of the most beautiful love songs ever written.
the old hand traces
frail outlines in the wood grain
a kiss in the fields
We went to the Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate. I love his work. I’m planning to write a longer review on my other blog, so I wont linger on such terms as ‘melancholy’ and ‘troubled’, but suffice to say I’m so glad we caught the tail end of this beautiful exhibition.
There were some incredible pieces of work there, but the one which moved me the most was perhaps a modest piece Munch worked on in the last few months of his life, he was 80 at the time. In 1943 he made a woodcut called “Kiss in the Field”. As was Munch’s style, it was a title and motif/style he’d repeated over the decades of his career. But this one was so feint as to almost be invisible, the grain of the wood was prominent, the spectral outline of the image just about recognisable amongst the powerful shapes within the wood itself. I could imagine his frail old hands working. It made me feel sad.
(photo I took from the exhibition catalogue)
The cathedral dome
bauble sunk, cupped and smothered
by a fell beast’s hands
Flying over London, I was astonished to see just how small St Paul’s Cathedral is amongst the towers of the city. The Shard is an ugly dagger, sharp and brutal. That it can make Wren’s masterpiece look so small shocked me. St Paul’s still carries a strength, from the river, crossing from Bankside and Tate Modern, it still imposes. But from the air, it looks feeble, a toy.
The journey took us along the path of the Thames into the estuary, the mud flats splayed for hundreds of metres, the hairpin curves of the tributaries, snaking in and out till they reached the brackish water that is neither sea or river.
We then cut south and flew over the alien territory round Dungeness, so barren and lonely looking. A nature sanctuary. Then over the Channel to France.
my insignificance
in the majesty of stars
a lonely vigil
I popped into the new Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate Modern after work. I rushed through as I wanted to get a taste for it, as a member I can visit anytime for a more leisurely (although leisurely may be the wrong word) visit at a later date. Munch is one of my favourite painters. The collection they’ve pulled together for this exhibition is great. There is an intense loneliness about his work.
For example, Starry Night. Initially it seems this is a celebration of stars and clear crisp nights. And indeed it is. But what appears to be the artists shadow thrown across the ground just speaks of loneliness and melancholy to me. How we are alone. It moves me. As does most of his work.
(pic from Tate website)
Dirty old river
centuries of silt tumbles
under new metal
A photo taken from the Tate Modern members balcony, me and Sal went to the Yayoi Kusama exhibition. Watched the feral pigeons and the feral people below them from our vantage point. And yeah, there’s a little tribute to a Ray Davies Kinks lyric in my Haiku.
Sleeping filament
Lampada Annuale
no one saw it glow
Went to the Tate Modern after work, getting the most out of my membership! I sat in the members room for a bit with a scone and some tea and did a bit of work on my laptop, then I had a wander.
The Alighiero Boetti exhibition is great fun and very thought provoking. Like many people, I kind of was drawn to the Lampada Annuale (annual lamp) which only switches itself on randomly for 11 seconds in any one year. So naturally you are drawn to it, hoping to be bestowed the wonderful gift of light.
For an online experience of the same sense of expectancy, check this fun website!
I didn’t dwell for long, but I’m sure some people wait ages. Patience is a virtue. I strolled away with a wry smile.
The friendly eye dulled
Goddess lashes framed by blood
A slow gutter crawl
It just seemed meaningless, the cows head being slowly devoured by flies. Sure it was probably going to be dumped anyway, picked up from an abattoir somewhere.
Damien Hirst says nothing to me.
(me and the Bossman went to his private view at the Tate Modern)
