Post Abstract Vorticism and the way forward.

A guest blog by Jan Nieupjur.


Editors note: As usual Jan and I don't see eye to eye and I don't really go along with this.

Thank god! We can wave a hearty good bye to hirstian 'Brit Art' posturing and Banksy 'psuedo street' commercialism. I have seen the future of Art and it is Post Abstract Vorticism. A style most perfectly demonstrated in the work of the young Lithuanian 'Smith'!

Caligula at the Coliseum. Madness, bonking madness but brilliant!

To the Coleseum this morning with Mr Pounce the barrister to see the dress rehearsal of the ENO production of Caligula.

Bloody hell!

Fantastic set, minimalist if you didn't count the 301 seats on the terrace facing the audience... But brilliant in that the action back stage happened up high and with equal importance (if you are up in the gods). An almost vertical stage in fact.

Mad music and mad libretto skittered around madness illustrated by multiple pinoccios, panda bears, dancing girls, gun toting yes men, the naked rendition of Caligulas dead sister, men in suits and bonkers, bonkers... well bonking or the product of bonkers bonking.

The music out of context would be impossible. Modern I suppose in that it wasn't waltzes and the like. You knew from the moment it started that no fat woman was going to be singing this one out.... It weren't going to be over until the dead woman sang and sang beautifully as Caligula strangled her.

Throughout the performance the ghost of the sister wanders naked around the place, Wagnarians would be disappointed; she is a slip of a lass. As far as naked wandering goes the girl has it all, she is a star, you could ditch the singers and the band completely and still have a show. In the second half she wandered naked whilst painted gold. Who said opera was boring... Loyd Webber could make a whole show out of the poor girl doomed to walk the stage of the Coliseum naked, night after night, without the offer of even a cardigan to keep the chill at bay.

Caligula died at the hands of a mob of hoodied thugs on the terraces after having dragged both Mr Pounce and myself through his madness.

It was interesting to note that, at the end, the non-singing, non talking, naked lass got the loudest applause...

I for one enjoyed the thing immensely.

Bianca Jagger 'assaulted' at the opera.

What a farce!

I nicked this photo from the guardian, if you squint hard you can make out the photo-credit in the text at the bottom.



Bianca Jagger was at the Barbican for a performance of Phillip Glass's bonkers five hour, abstract opera Einstein on the Beach. She took a couple of photographs during the curtain call which apparently pissed off some bloke called Mark Shenton (Sunday Express theatre critic) who then proceeded to cause a scene during which, according to Bianca, he assaulted her. Shame on him.

In the first place Ms Jagger (who not only had to put up with being married to the pop crooner Mick but also has worked tirelessly for human rights) should be allowed to do as she pleases, especially at the opera. Secondly, this Shenton character would probably have applauded her had she been photographing him for her scrap book of theatre 'greats'. He obviously was affected by the roar of the grease paint, the smell of the crowd and the heady  essence of modern opera, which to my way of thinking is probably a bit too rich for the likes of him and his down market rag.

Shenton is quoted in the guardian as saying: "There are clearly no rules anymore. There is clearly civil breakdown in the theatre."... For fuck's sake man! Lighten up. It's modern innit!

To my mind there is clearly a mental breakdown in that particular theatre.

Cheltenham Jazz Festival, Paloma Faith, Torrents of spring and John Gordons.

What are Bank holiday Mondays for if not for driving through torrential rain for two hours in order to trudge about a rain sodden field drinking expensive beer, eyeing up dodgy merchandise and fast food, listening to  seriously un-jazz, in the free music tent while waiting for a Paloma Faith gig in the circus big top!                                                                             

A hardy festival goer in the packed beer tent!


The Paloma Faith thing was sold out but I sat through the sound check which was interesting. I spent the rest of the evening drenched, looking around the town before stumbling into the high point of my day: a Cafe/bar/wine & spirit merchants called John Gordons... What a lovely little place it is too, just a few tables set in a fairly compact shop in Montpellier Arcade (utterly refreshing to find in a town now seemingly dedicated to the mediocre and in obvious thrall to the lowest common denominator) run by very friendly and helpful people. If you ever visit Cheltenham make sure you visit this place.

www.johngordons.co.uk

While enjoying a beer and buying a bottle of red for the muse I got chatting to a number of 'walk-outs' from the Paloma Faith thing. The general feeling was: 'What the hell did that have to do with Jazz?'

The answer to that of course is: 'Nothing'!

Love blossoms on Portobello Road.

The following cards were spotted in a corner shop window on Portobello Road. I am particularly taken by the honesty of the second one although it strikes me as being a little on the risky side!

Sam Birch at the Tabernacle, CODE FC everywhere else and arguing with Nicholas Serota!

To the Tabernacle ( I haven't been there for a while) to have a look at Sam Birch's maps: THE HEART OF THE CITY | RECENT WORKS BY SAM BIRCH | PRIVATE VIEW. I like maps, Sams work is not great Art but it is good and thought provoking.  Great to see some old friends and great to receive such a warm welcome from the Tabernacle staff.

On the way home I met a guy putting up stickers here and there, turns out he is 'CODE FC'; a graffiti artist who's work I have seen over the years in the neighbourhood' I have some of his stuff at home. We had a brief chat about streeet art and stuff. He wasn't a vandal or a hoodied thug. Nice guy. Invited me to his private view in June. Go and have a look.

'But is it art' I hear you say. 'Fucking right if the artist says so'. Says Nicholas Serota! Who can argue with that! I have heard that Mrs Serota occasionally argues with Nicholas but not about art.

Naked Italian painters hit London!

Hourly rates upon application.

Portobello Road ball saga update.

It didn't take very long at all. Within days of the installation of the spherical granite shin barkers on Tavistock Square/Portobello Road vandals had managed to break one off. We found it like this late on Saturday night and with the help of a local restaurateur managed to pop it back in its socket. What on earth went through the mind of the planner who allowed these things to be placed here.

Madness.

The pelican on All Saints Road is reopening.

After quite a while closed the often troubled Pelican is being refurbished. Builders are gutting the place (not a cheap makeover) in preparation for opening in a couple of months time. Let's hope it will becomee a decent pub/bar rather than yet another pizza joint!

Balls on Portobello Road, crack, curling and boredom.

The latest addition to the Tavistock Square refurbishment is a collection of balls. Granite balls to be precise. Quite why they are there I do not know, not high enough to sit on yet low enough to bark a shin on on dark nights. Perhaps they are humorous representations of the crack rocks popular among some elements of the local community. They are balls anyway.

On close inspection I suspect that the balls are of  a granite found only on Ailsa Craig; an island in the Forth of Clyde on the West coast of Scotland. A granite of such fine quality that it is used in the manufacture of curling stones; curling being the 'sport' which imaginatively combines ice, granite, RAF roundels and brooms. It is called 'curling' as a result of its toe curlingly boring nature. Balls!

Portobello Man: The Bevis Frond.

The half million pound loo seat on Portobello Road.

OK. they have nearly finished tarting up Tavistock Square on Portobello. Half a million has been spent on it; granite from China being a fairly hefty chunk of the cost! Who on earth specified chinese rock? what kind of bung was involved? We should be told.

What's the big difference?

The difference is a fancy circular seat next to the Auto piss machine; just the place to sit and eat your newly purchased, wood-fired cheese on toast, serenaded by the farts and splashes of thousands of tourists.

What on earth went through the planners heads here. There is more than one meaning to 'Public Waste'.

Another nail in the Portobello Road coffin, Intoxica is closing.

Yet another of the stores that make the road is going.... another victim of escalating rents, greedy landlords and the local authorities apparent desire to turn this once unique street into some kind of tourist tat mecca.

Intoxica (a wonderful little record store) and its like made Portobello road long before that fucking film attracted bucket shop loads of tourists in search of the 'blue door' and the rest of the disneyesque bilge that is now seen as 'Notting Hill' (this end of Portobello is 'Ladbroke Grove' anyway).  Very soon all that will be left is shops and stalls selling plastic routemasters and black cabs, I love London fridge magnets, policemens helmets, dodgy food, 'pop-up galleries' selling naff artwork and the rest of the tourist crap alongside rubbish high street clothing and shoe stores.... Oh and wood fired cheese on toast restaurants.

Portobello Road is being systematically eviscerated and 'insanitised'.

There are theories abounding regarding RBKC and their seeming desire to destroy one of Londons iconic roads. Some say backhanders from the developers, others say that the council is in fear of some kind of mafia thing. Others are inclined to believe that the jobsworths of RBKC couldn't give a flying fuck about anything other than their salaries and a quiet life! 

Of course corruption exists, always has done, always will. 

Portobello road is doomed to become as risible as Carnaby Street and its like!

sad!

I'm going to the Cock and Bottle to drown my sorrows.