The Tate Modern: a new definition of “Art”

A Guest Arts and Culture Review by Doctor Anthony Beauregard Peabody (BA Arts, MA Fine Arts, PhD Feminist Brush Theory)

Walking through the twist and turns of this hallowed gallery, you might be tempted to look around, regard the ingenious shapes and striking blobs of colour and bits of string, and loudly proclaim “are you serious, mate?”

If you’re a troglodyte, that is. But, however, you’re not some moaning, murping, whingey, artless, illiterate, soulless, blind, uneducated, lower-middle-class scum, just as I am not. And so you – just like me – would be refreshed and invigorated by the breath-taking display of modern art pieces in this fine curation: a bold and daring redefinition of what “art” really means.

Jean Helion (1904 – 1987)

My review begins - as all great reviews of timeless work do – at the beginning, with French abstractist Helion’s Abstract Composition. Skillfully thrown together in 1934 using bold oils, contrasting schemes and shapes etched using a wonky ruler, the piece is as challenging as it is beautiful. Far from the photo-realistic oil paints of a bygone era, Helion focuses his brush to devastating effect in a neo-performative critique of the Marxo-social feminine ideal. Using his mother as a model and sniffing deeply of the turpentine, Helion’s simplistic shapes remind us of a childhood era of peace, innocence, and fucking around in MSPaint drawing ovals and filling them in with that paintcan thingy. Marvellous, isn’t it?

Piet Mondrian (1872-1944)

Following Helion’s genius is Mondrian’s 1935 seminal chef d’oeuvre, Compostion B. While the name might be lacking in sophistication and hidden meanings, the painting itself is not: he uses white. He uses black. He uses squares. He uses lines. To the untrained eye, it might appear a lacklustre effort – something painted when the crackpipe is empty and you have nothing to eat but dry pasta and butter. But its mastery lies in the white space. We’ll get onto white space in a bit, but rest assured that this is just the first gobsmacking example of artistic brilliance.

Joseph Beuys (1921-1986)

A too-often-heard criticism of art is the requirement for colour, innovation, technique, and “making it at least nice to look at”. However, Beuy’s impromptu oeuvre in 1974, the infamous For the lecture: ‘The Social Organism: a Work of Art’ does away with such retrogressive limitations. A frenzy of chalk and animal-like, kinda-looks-like-a-person-I-guess shapes are drawn together with furious zeal, outlining the social construction of the world and man and beasts places within that ever-shifting, complex web. It’s, like, deep.

Beuy’s profound discontentment with the limitations of conventional art – such as being able to just draw a horse that looks like a goddamn horse – are not capped at his bestial designs: his obliteration of basic writing and spelling that makes your doctor’s script look like calligraphy cement the movement’s deep revolution away from the restriction of the Old Masters.

Unknown author

This next piece is awe defined. While abstractists and modern art turns away from the sour conventions of old, this piece turns that discontentment on itself. Welding and silver-washing steel into a centrepiece, the artist scatters recreations of excrement around it. However, in a galling and audacious shunning of contemporary modern technique, the scat is not, in fact, made from his own faeces. Rather, he makes the puzzling choice of bronze. Why a modern artist would use metalwork when there is a perfectly good belly of shit inside him, ready at any moment to be couched and splattered in a glorious, counter-contemporary cascade into an oily, thick puddle of brilliance, or smeared with his own hands - perhaps mixing it with the period blood of his wife - onto a canvas, is beyond me – but his efforts are, indeed, commendable.

Ceal Floyer (1968)

Simplistic pieces that leave the audience reeling and gawping at the wall are this exhibition's forte, and no piece is no different. Since its creation in a Sainsbury’s in Holborn in June of 2009, Monochrome Till Slip has been leaving audiences gobsmacked. Using just 49 all-white items that cost about 55 pounds sterling, this 30 000-pound masterpiece challenges the viewers conception of not just colour, but value. “What is colour?” he muses; “Is white a colour?” he ponders; “Jesus, have I been binning 30 000 pounds every time I go shopping?” he queries.

Various Authors – white spaces

This aforementioned concept is a central theme in modern art. Indeed, just as famed masters of old were celebrated for producing spectacular work filled with vibrant colours, awe-inspiring figures, and bold techniques, so too do the new masters do exact the same thing just with none of that. Ellsworth Kelly’s (1923-2015) provoking 1974 creation White Curve is just one of these, but the gallery is bedecked with them: a moving tribute to the nothing. For after all, without nothing, how could there be anything? With no paint, no brush, no frame, no material, no content, is art defined in and of itself, or defined as a contrast to purity, to a null, blank nothingness? All technique can only be identified in the absence of such; and all art can only be identified in the absence of art. But then, is this now art? Does a nothing that defines a something make it, indeed, a something itself? I’m very smart. I hope you’re following.

It doesn’t end with Kelly, however: blank canvases bring negative space screaming into fruition. In one example, three blank canvasses hang side-by-side, a stunning riposte to the outmoded ideals of what constitutes a “body of works” or “portfolio”. Are they all just the same blank canvas? Or are they reinterpreted and their meanings recodeified with each subjective appraisal, “um”, “ah”, and “what the fuck is this bullshit”? These works are exquisite: a communico-performative social reconstruction that uses both negativeness and audience to reframe art as a conceptulisational referencing Jurgenialist non-adaptive recreation.

In some cases, it was just a blank wall, with a blanked-out explanation box. Bold. Simple. Beautiful. Genius.

Art as trash; trash as art

By now, many criticisms have been offered as to the value of this art. Not its literal value, as that has been established by art houses and taxpayers, but its value as an artistic project. “This is garbage,” some may cry, from their places at the trough. But this is the exact, surgeon-like accuracy of the artistic project: to challenge the hegemonic conventions of art by using a Thingymajigian approach to High-Balderdashian Obfuscationalism so as to instill an anti-traditionalist critique of the problematic oversimplification of art as “something that’s nice to look at” or “that makes us feel something”.

And they are right. Oft-times, the art is garbage. Crafted from the detritus of society and pulled from council tips, these recreations make us ask “is this really an old blanket?” and “is this really just a dirty bucket squeezed between a milk carton and a Styrofoam brick, a combination that uses elitist posturing and jargon to alienate those who don’t see the Emperor’s New Clothes?”

“What is waste, and what is wasted?” we must question. Regard this following piece:

The material is a bold choice. Flimsy and tacked together at the last minute – just like its premise – it makes the audience wonder ‘wire-we looking at this?’. Of course, the exhibit doesn’t stop there, as it is a cornerstone of modern art is to stray from cliché materials to recreate a new art.

Untitled (toilet paper, wooden floor) is one such offering. This piece, by an unknown author stops you dead in your tracks. Situated not on a wall or in a demarcated area, it breaks the boundaries of the limiting gallery context, a space beleaguered with rules and restrictions. Where you cannot touch other pieces, this sturdy construction from simple toilet paper and the artists excrement is not beset by such limitations. You can even, if you want, touch it, or rub it against your cheek – as I did, several times. A sublime challenge to demoded conventions.

This simple creation is just a fraction of a larger setpiece. Hidden in a smaller tiled exhibition space demarcated merely by traditional signs for males, females, and disabled persons, a series of miniature sculptures in porcelain, paper and steel carry this anti-conventional message to powerful new heights. By drawing on real life gender divisions in society, enforcing them on the audience, and creating a performative space that critiques human waste creation, it makes for truly puissant art.

You see, that is the Tate Modern’s true success. Walking out, the audience is left perplexed and deeply unsettled, questioning the very definition of art itself. Alas, I must admit that this is a feeling that is muted and spoiled by the curators decision to ruin the unilateral, message-laden exhibition with lackluster works by Degas, Monet and that plebiscite's abstractist, Picasso. What is this, the fucking Louvre?

9/10 stars except for the floor for Georgia O'Keeffe

New range of cosmetics guaranteed to hide your repulsive face

You can celebrate without worrying about smile-wrinkles, Ladies: makeup giant L’Oréal has announced a brand-new series of cosmetic products guaranteed to “utterly and cleverly hide your various hideous congenital disfigurements and facial flaws”.

Researchers at the cosmetics conglomerate now say that their cutting-edge line of products has been custom-designed to hide any facial atrocity that makes society vomit in its mouth a little bit: whether it’s a small scar on your cheek or a couple of marks from skin problems in your teens.

The power of this new line of products is immediately apparent,

“We all know that every women – with just a few exceptions such as anyone you ever seen in a fashion magazine – is born completely eye-wateringly ugly,” said product R&D overseer Jeffrey Mandlesen. “But finally these poor 6/10’s will have a product that can make them actually worth something.”

“It doesn’t matter how bad your repulsive birth defects are,” he explained. “Below-average nose angularity, a slightly asymmetrical face shape, or uneven eyebrows – all of these can be swept away with a layer of make-up so thin barely anyone will be able to tell it’s there.”

Researchers behind the genius line of products now say that the whole concept was inspired by the strong, fearless women of the world who will go out and live normal lives even though they look like a baboon's arse got caught up in some kind of an industrial accident.

"We think it's so amazing that these courageous women have the guts, the sheer pluck to leave the pitch black of their dark rooms and let so many people see their un-model-like waist and totally average, representative-of-reality features," said one man with a clipboard and bunsen burner. "If it was me, god, i'd just board up the windows and kill myself."

And woman are beside themselves with joy at the news.

It’s so great,” said 18-year-old Jessica Hendersen, who obviously looks like a fugly homeless troglodyte if she’s not slathered in base and eyeliner. “Finally, I’m one step closer to those completely unrealistic and toxic standards of beauty that I’ve been working so hard to attain. Pretty soon, boys won’t be able to tell between me – a living, breathing human being with dreams and ambitions – and their completely delusional cover-girl fantasies.”

And that’s just the beginning: L’Oreal is now hinting at a brand new line of clothing that will help you to look slimmer and, more importantly, conceal that revolting above-movie-starlet-width waistline that you subject everyone to by having a normal eating plan and Body Mass Index.

“The early testing results are quite astounding,” said the company in a press release. “When you wear our upcoming line of corsets and tightening body-socks, no one will even be able to tell the difference between you and their porn-star ideals of what a woman should look like.”

“You’ll immediately feel results – and not just in your crushed ribcage and restricted diaphragm either.”

Instagrammer comes to blindly obvious conclusion, quits Instagram

Gut-wrenching feelings of shock and betrayal persist today, after 18-year-old Instagrammer Tay Kasselfey came to the self-evident conclusion that Instagram is “contrived perfection made to get attention” and deleted her account.

Kasselfey, who had to this sudden and utterly self-apparently epiphany this weekend, has slammed Instagram, saying that despite the social media platform's devilishly misleading realism, the service is actually built on “carefully constructed lies that didn’t eat that morning and also had to suck in their belly”.

“Instagram might look totally real. If you scroll down it and see all the glossy, filtered and yet also hyperrealistic photos of coffee and stunningly attractive, thin woman dressed and made up to perfection, you could be easily tricked into thinking, ‘yeah, this is a totally realistic and accurate representation of the daily lived experience of every human being currently alive’,” she said. “But – brace yourself – it isn’t.”

She explained at length.

“Look at this photo of myself. Now, from this photo alone and no other information, you might easily think that I study in a skimpy bikini in the sun with books of different subjects all opened at the same time and strategically placed and turned to random pages while I pose in a super-uncomfortable yet sexy angle that accentuates my butt, flat, toned stomach and boobs,” she said. “But what if I told you that it was totally posed and took several dozen shots and careful post-editing to capture? It’s shocking and incredible to hear, I know, but that’s the truth.”

“And looking at any of the millions of photos on Instagram, you might think that every woman currently alive is a smokingly gorgeous perfect 10 with abs and boobs – but that just isn’t true. I mean, how is anyone supposed to figure that out on their own?”

And the disappointment doesn’t stop there.

“All those hashtags that we all think are there to accurately label and classify the images into neat categories that allow users to easily find content that suits their tastes and search criteria?” she asked. “Well, I hate to be the one to break this awful news, but actually they are just abused and piled up to try and get as many views and as much reach as possible, and often don’t even describe in any logical way at all what is in the photo.”

“I mean, I once used #goals #life #future #books #intellect #nerdy #dreams #workhard and #college on a selfie of me wearing glasses and holding a science textbook. How could anyone possibly have known that none of those tags actually meant anything?”

Kasselfey – who in real life is an overweight 42-year-old man who works in IT - has now sworn off the “narcissistic, self-obsessed, egotistical” Instagram, and has started a new campaign to try and create a more meaningful world that cares about other people.

“My new campaign features hundreds of photos of me in sexy poses that expose how shallow the whole thing is,” he explained. “We should care about things that truly matter, and not try to force the world to obsess about themselves or flood their spheres with endless pictures of themselves.

But despite this selfless awareness drive, public reaction has been mixed.

“I simply don’t believe it,” said one man. “You’re telling me that the vast majority of women aren’t oversaturated-colour-tinted models constantly wearing clothes that leave little to the imagination, and that all those photos weren’t taken in one spontaneous, off-the-cuff snap and hence don’t give a realistic depiction of real life? PSHT. Pull the other one.”

“I think it’s fantastic,” said a woman. “I’m not a size-zero supermodel, and so when I say that Instagram is fake and constructed, people just think I’m being a jealous, insecure hater bitch. I’m just glad that there’s someone much thinner and more beautiful than myself and thousands of other women who people will actually listen to about how women don’t look like that.”

But not all of the public is positive.

“She’s obviously lying,” said one angry commenter. “I mean, there’s no way it’s fake. Why would thousands of people spend hours on hair and make-up and positioning their Pina Colada very carefully on the edge of the table to get a perfect snap of the sunset, and dozens of minutes choosing the perfect filter to best exaggerate your image’s qualities? So that they can assuage their insecurity? So that they can garner more followers and possibly get asked to shoot a sponsored post that earns them thousands of dollars just to drink a cup of tea?”

“No ways – how gullible do you think I am? Next thing she’ll try to tell us that Wrestling is fake.”

Cosmopolitan mag releases shallowest edition yet

A majority-male media ownership cabal expressed its unhesitating and unequivocal delight today, after women’s magazine giant Cosmopolitan released their biggest, emptiest, most-advert-packed jumbo bumper deluxe edition yet.

“It really is a remarkable achievement,” said CEO Jake Davis. “In comparison, it makes our last editions look like philosophy textbooks.”

The issue, which is said to contain as many as 300 pages of jaw-dropping advertisements for clothes, make-up and high-end brands almost 80% of the South African women population can’t afford, as well as over 15 pages of stunning and make-you-swoon-in-desire paid advertorials, went on sale this morning at newsstands across the country.

“The latest beauty fad that will last three months at the most; the best super-secret fitness tips that we dug up on page two of Google search results; obvious health advice; and the obligatory every-edition ‘Have the Best Sex of Your Life That You’ll Obviously Never Be Able To Have Without Reading This Magazine’ article – it’s all in there!” said Magazine Editor and ex-journalist Mandy Sanders. “It’s like every other edition, but with a newer cover and prettier typeface: bigger, better, and same-ier than ever!”

Despite controversial criticisms that Cosmopolitan is a shallow ad-filled celebration of emptiness and meaningless high-brand capitalism that perpetuates a highly Westernised and white ideal of beauty, that it upholds a form of feminism that can be both toxic and oppressive, and that it excludes a vast majority of real, non-model women living under socioeconomic duress, fans of the magazine were defiantly supportive.

“Ag, it’s just a bit of fun that costs more than what many South Africans make in a day,” said 42-year-old Cape Town secretary Jane Eyre. “I like the magazine. I think people can be too critical and academic sometimes. Who cares if it causes some women to feel hideously inadequate about their body image or if it drives a culture of impaired self-esteem and warped notions of what can be deemed ‘beautiful’ stemming from a critically over-negative focus on what people look like and what brands they can afford to purchase?”

She also added that the magazine was “really, really pretty” which was “really, really nice”.

Cosmo magazine goes on sale to a predominantly rich and upper-middle-class female readership for about R40 more than most would pay for a really long string of adverts.

“We currently have about 78 000 readers,” said Sanders, “which is about 78 439 more readers than most satirical blogs run by ex-students have.”

Pic owned by Cosmopolitan magazine.
New Cosmo Cover (my edit) with female model by Alejandro Páez

TV Commercial product user “still not knee-deep in women”

Confusion and disappointment abounded today, after local man Andrew Chekdat announced that despite spending thousands of Rands on Axe and Lynx deodorants, expensive colognes, Armani suits, costly watches and even certain brands of mouth freshener and shower gel, he still has yet to be flooded or covered by an endless stampede of really, really hot chicks.

“It makes no sense,” he told reporters who gathered to hear the statement made outside his house in Pretoria. “It doesn’t matter where I spray, how much I spray, or even how many different products I use at the same time. Chicks don’t hound me, they don’t lose utter control of their senses when I look at them, they don’t bite their lips seductively when I pass them in the street. None of these products do what they say they do. Flip, I should be knee-deep in clunge by now, boet.”

Chekdat told reporters how at first he thought it was his fault.

“I thought, you know, maybe I’m not using the product right, maybe I’m not using it correctly. But then I copied the advert move-for-move, spraying, washing, and dressing in that exact manner, and still nothing,” he said. "Not even a single remotely gorgeous binnet draped over all me like a wet curtain."

He added that even dressing in an expensive Giorgio Armani suit with matching platinum Rolex watch, and wearing a dazed expression that was equal parts slightly constipated and self-obsessed while ignoring the beautiful, half-dressed women around him didn’t work, either.

“It’s almost as if these products don’t have any power in getting women,” he said. “But what else could they be for? I mean, in the adverts there is no indication of what they smell like, or how well they clean you or whatever, so it can’t be that. Surely you’d advertise a fragrance using, you know, smell? Like how Steers or Spur advertise their food with actual taste and a meaningful, realistic representation of their products instead of just images of the food being cut up?”

This is seemingly the opening of the floodgates of complaints against the beauty industry, as thousands of other unhappy customers – many of them women themselves – have added to the chorus.

“I put on beauty masks, I buy expensive clothes, I follow the trends in the latest magazines. I put on the stain-free underarm roll-on, I mist myself with the delicate breath of flowers trapped in a R1000 50ml glass bottle,” said local artist Meaghan Fuller, whose name really is spelt that way, yes, with two ‘a’s and an ‘h’, we checked. “And still I have yet to have a sensuous and yet caring Argentinian dark, brooding hunk in an expensive suit caress my neck and arms while objectifying me and my reducing my worth to just the fragrance I wear. It makes no sense. I should be drowning in abs and sports cars right now.”

She also mentioned that all those feel-good health products had done “absolutely fok-all”.

“You’d think with their chai berry and agave extracts, all-natural, preservative-free ingredients, and cleaning, deep-detox powers I’d look like Megan Fox by now,” she said, struggling to choke back the sobs, “but all I feel is constantly hungry, and I’m more Mike Myers Fat Bastard than Transformers Love Interest who is strangely written out of the series in an unconvincing and not-at-all profound manner.”

The complainants have since decided to lodge a class-action lawsuit against the nefarious purveyors of lies and disappointment, saying that they should be forced to be more honest about the products they hawk.

“Tobacco products have to carry labels saying ‘Caution: Smoking Kills’ and all those scary facts,” they said in a joint statement. “Why shouldn’t perfume manufacturers have to have a label saying ‘Caution: will not get you laid.’?”

The manufacturers have defended themselves, however, saying that they were sorry about these failures, and that a future line of products will amend these "horrid, regrettable errors".

"Ever since we simultaneously published these Axe adverts and yet at the same time also put out the Dove Real Beauty campaign, we've been dedicated to selling products that not only celebrate you as an individual, but ones that also make up for your glaring insecurities and personality defects," said Unilever in a statement. "We're really sorry that this happened, but we're also pleased to announce a new fusion of cologne, facewash and shampoo that will definitely get you all the hot babes you want. Look, here's an advert that proves its effective power on George Clooney. It even works on him."