God Save the Punks
Tonight, I think I finally figured out how to pronounce David Wojnarowicz's name properly. Which feels like a minor triumph.
Anyway, I mention that because some of his work appears in the Barbican's Panic Attack!: Art in the Punk Years exhibition, and it was marvelous. Really, my favourite stuff there, although that's partly because it's not quite as well-known as the work by Goldin, Krueger, Jarman, Basquiat, Haring, etc. and thus felt a bit fresher and less institutionalised. The 'Rimbaud in New York' series -- amazing. Also fascinating -- a 3 minute Super-8 simply called 'Heroin', which I'd love to know if Danny Boyle watched prior to the making of Trainspotting. Granted, there are only so many ways you can, ahem, shoot people shooting up and then collapsing into loucheness, but let's just say it appeared there was some influence.
Time Out gripes about the show's didacticism, which is I think right (the Barbican does seem to have a problem with drily over-contextualising). Still, the explicit argument about confluences of concern in the London and New York art scenes of the period is well-made, and if the God Save the Queen cover collage was up, not everything was quite so 'obvious'. For one, they didn't feature a Jenny Holzer LED sculpture (there were fluorescent, photocopies wallbills, instead). And, obviousness aside, the Cindy Sherman 'film stills' are always striking, no matter how many times you've seen them (which I guess just makes her point, doesn't it?). OH! I almost forgot the most sensational image of the exhibit, by Wojnarowicz's former partner Peter Hujar: 'Candy Darling on Her Deathbed'. It's been made (more) famous by Antony and Johnsons, but seeing it on the wall... incredible.
So, yeah, worth your hour and a half and six quid. Especially on a Thursday night when the galleries are all but empty. Wouldn't want too many people crowded 'round the video monitor showing a man with nothing on but boxing gloves and a mask as he variously pummels his own chest and face and masturbates using tomato ketchup as lubricant (that'd be 'Rocky', by Paul McCarthy, 1976, 26 min., for the record). Punk, indeed.
Anyway, I mention that because some of his work appears in the Barbican's Panic Attack!: Art in the Punk Years exhibition, and it was marvelous. Really, my favourite stuff there, although that's partly because it's not quite as well-known as the work by Goldin, Krueger, Jarman, Basquiat, Haring, etc. and thus felt a bit fresher and less institutionalised. The 'Rimbaud in New York' series -- amazing. Also fascinating -- a 3 minute Super-8 simply called 'Heroin', which I'd love to know if Danny Boyle watched prior to the making of Trainspotting. Granted, there are only so many ways you can, ahem, shoot people shooting up and then collapsing into loucheness, but let's just say it appeared there was some influence.
Time Out gripes about the show's didacticism, which is I think right (the Barbican does seem to have a problem with drily over-contextualising). Still, the explicit argument about confluences of concern in the London and New York art scenes of the period is well-made, and if the God Save the Queen cover collage was up, not everything was quite so 'obvious'. For one, they didn't feature a Jenny Holzer LED sculpture (there were fluorescent, photocopies wallbills, instead). And, obviousness aside, the Cindy Sherman 'film stills' are always striking, no matter how many times you've seen them (which I guess just makes her point, doesn't it?). OH! I almost forgot the most sensational image of the exhibit, by Wojnarowicz's former partner Peter Hujar: 'Candy Darling on Her Deathbed'. It's been made (more) famous by Antony and Johnsons, but seeing it on the wall... incredible.
So, yeah, worth your hour and a half and six quid. Especially on a Thursday night when the galleries are all but empty. Wouldn't want too many people crowded 'round the video monitor showing a man with nothing on but boxing gloves and a mask as he variously pummels his own chest and face and masturbates using tomato ketchup as lubricant (that'd be 'Rocky', by Paul McCarthy, 1976, 26 min., for the record). Punk, indeed.