Must do tomorrow

Unfortunately, my habit of leaving everything to the last minute is clearly noticeable on this blog. Just as with Crash, where I arrived breathless on the very last day of exhibition, I got to the British Museum, the day before the last of the Revolution on Paper. Apologies, but it is a must see exhibition, so drop everything on your all-too-hated Monday, and take a walk through the wonderfully funny and socio-politically insightful prints from the early 20th century Mexico. 

Ok, there is a slight possibility that I might be a bit bias about this exhibit. Having lived in Mexico for three months, it is only natural that I may feel a deeper connection with the contents of the prints. I highly doubt, for example, that anybody would feel the sort of piss-myself excitement of looking at a nude sketch of Dolores Olmedo by Diego Rivera, had you not wondered her beautiful gardens with peacocks, house-galleries filled with a unique and magnificent collection of works by Frida Kahlo and Rivera and played with the almost-extinct Xolo dogs (that are bald!) in the shade of the maguey cactuses. Or looking at fragement sketches of Orozco's murals, and feeling the pangs of acutely tear-jerking nostalgia, recalling standing in front of and admiring the full mural of Omniscence, stretching two stories, at the Casa de los Azulejos in the heart of Mexico DF. 

But even if you don't possess this over the top sentimental attachment to the country, it is nevertheless worth inspecting a nation's struggle for independence from the point of view of shrewd visual commentary. It is also the most extensive such exhibition ever put on in the UK, and you can discover such 20th century art-celebrities as 'Emiliano Zapata and his horse' by Diego Rivera, or observe the ever-present relevance of criticism of capitalist media control, or the Churches fight against secularism and its bullying of indigenous cultures into mix-and-matching local and Catholic religion.

Emiliano Zapata and his horse, Diego Rivera, 1932, lithograph © 2009, Banco de Mexico Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico D.F. / DACSFair enough, you don't really have to 'discover' this one, it is the first thing you see as you walk into Room 90. It's good it doesn't poke your eyes out.

 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

The Laughter of the Public - away with your nonsense

1939, Lithograph

A gachupín commonly refers to an immigrant especially a Spaniard in Mexico. The gachupín here is tooting the horn of 'Free Press', which, according to the little limerick on the side is 'Is neither free and is neither press', it is essentially a mouthpiece for pro-fascist propaganda. 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

Symbiosis, c1940, Lithograph

A beautifully simple representation of a painfully complicated and sensitive subject. The Christianization of the indigenous population in Mexico was a forceful and sometimes violent process. It is very interesting to see how not only Christian churches were built upon the ruins of destroyed sanctuaries of the natives, but how Christian traditions and the cult of the saints were built on local ceremonies and superstitions. 

Leopoldo Méndez (1902 -1969)

Poltical piñata, 1936, Woodcut

The piñata represents President Plutarco Elias Calles and his Constituional Revolutionary Party, which is represented as a disguise for Capitalism. The worker using the baton marked 'Feliz Año 1936' is cheered on by a group of spectators, showing that the print could have possibly been designed as a holiday card, hoping for the defeat of Calles and Capitalism in the coming year. 

José Guadalupe Posada (1852-1913)

A Skeleton from Guadalajara, 1910

Photo-relief and letterpress

'The word Tapatia in the title is used colloquially in Mexico to describe people from the city of Guadalajara, which is regarded as the city that most fully embodies Mexican identity. The verses, written in the first person, recount the way in which the skeleton has defeated people from other states in fights. The scene is set in a Mexican cantina, a bar traditionally reserved for men, and a likely home for such a macho figure, even if a female skeleton is peering over his shoulder.' (quote: the little tablet next to the print)

Of course I couldn't resist the temptation of purchasing the book (it was half off!!) which contains all the prints and others not included in the exhibit, and extensive history of the era and background on its artists! A treasure for all lovers of Mexico! 

So go ahead and don't do what you are suppose to tomorrow, and enjoy the savvy puns made at the expense of political climate, capitalism, religion and everyday Mexican life, which are not without actuality for today's casual museum-goer and occasional thinker. 

A new-born Londoner and car-porn

Having lived in London on and off for over three years, I have come to realize that I take many things for granted and some essential actions of my day-to-day life have become instinctive rather than conscious decisions. Examples could include the way you hold on the stairs of the double-decker in order to avoid diving headfirst downstairs when the crazy driver is abusing the brakes, or that you refer to things half-hour commuting away as 'in the neighbourhood' and you have long stopped being (or you never really were) amazed by the efficiency and ease of the Oyster card system. So when M arrived on Monday I knew I am in for one of the biggest challenges of becoming a 'Londoner', that is guiding a new-comer in the maze and chaos of this metropolis. 

'I can see the modern dick building. I am outside where are you?' Liverpool Street station was possibly the most harrowing first impression that my incredibly calm and chilled out man could have gotten. 'Why is everybody running?' and why is everybody dressed for a funeral? - could also have been an appropriate question in the heart of the City. Having a newbie around is like watching Bambi learn how to walk. The neighbourhood still consists of the area within walking distance, but it is growing corner by corner, day after day. Maybe next week I can trust him to get on a bus and find his way back? Oh, the worries. 

On an other note, I went on another book-binge, and got the following treasures:

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami , because I just loved loved Kafka on the Shore, and now my friend has lent me What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, his memoir. Ay, I can't wait for the Murakami overdose! But it will have to wait, because I also have the following works jumping up and down and yelling on my shelves 'read me! read me!': The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek, The Essential Tales of Chekhov edited by Richard Ford and my current reading material Crash by JG Ballard. 

Being as awesome and horrendous as it is, I had the luck of not only visualizing the disturbingly pornographic images of scrap metal in my head, but see it interpreted by numerous artists at the Gagosian Gallery. The homage to JGB revolved mainly around the many folded visualization of the components of the equation

 

LORIS GRÉAUD

The Future, 2009

Oil on canvas

57 x 41 inches framed (145 x 104 cm)

Oddly enough I did find some of the installations, that at first glance had nothing to do with sex, erotically charged. One of the rooms consisted of 3-4 meter screens showing various massive mechanical constructions operating, and as the metallic sounds filled the space, they slowly and somewhat gracefully made you feel tiny, helpless and fragile. And a little horny. I know this sounds weird and I still don't know if I felt this way, because of my preconceived idea that I should feel this way; because let's face it I was at an exhibition about a man's work whose characters get off on car crashes. Or there is truly something sexually arousing about technology, our helplessness without it and the dangers within it.

DAN HOLDSWORTH
Untitled (Autopia), 1998
Chromogenic print
Diptych: 41 7/8 x 52 3/16 inches each (106.5 x 132.6 cm)
Ed. of 5

Happy World Book Day, 2010

The 11 o'clock viewing just got cancelled. It was a dream place. Affordable and spacious. And it will stay so, because I will never see that it was actually a ran down hole. So I will keep beating myself up about it that I have missed out on this possibly perfect opportunity. This is what viewings are really for. To see what you do NOT want. But no fretting, I still have a quarter to 12 and a half 12 appointment to see where we do not wish to live. As you can see I am resorting to morose skepticism in order to not be disappointed, as I was when the agent called minutes ago to cancel the viewing and I went into a not-so-dignified chain of cussing, that may have offended my neighbours on the other side of the paper thin walls. 

You will be glad to know, that I still haven't made it to the library, since the last brief visit to register for my library card (which is actually a piece of yellow paper with a barcode sticker on it, fancy huh?). London is sunny! Who in their right mind would voluntarily imprison themselves within four walls, when spring comes trotting into the grey and rainy town? So I took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Hyde Park. Then, took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Regents Park. Then ... alright, to cut to the chase I also walked up to Camden and then Kentish Town. Let me tell you, I walked everywhere except to the library. 

I also wondered into a bookstore, when I was waiting for my randez-vous with the Doctor. I should have learned never ever to do that. It is dangerous activity for my time and also money. I could live in a bookstore. Just sit on the ground, and devour everything from classic to cult, through non-fiction to cook books. Somehow, I never end up reading what I'm supposed to be reading (fascinating pieces for aiding the structuring of my theoretical framework - says me, swallowing back a little vomit) so basically I procrastinate from reading by reading. I walked away, with only the essentials. At one point I was clutching five books, and trying to decide on the verge of tears, which ones I should take home. I think this is what most people feel when they have to pick out puppies from a litter. 

Under the Frog (A béka segge alatt) by Tibor Fisher

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo, y en español

and finally,

Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk,

which by a simple game of 'reach-in-the-bag-and-see-what-you-get' was the first to be read. Sitting at Euston, waiting for the Doctor, the station disappeared as I was sucked in to the horror and insight of the narrative. I actually had to look up at times, to tear myself away from the vivid images that my mind kept belching up of torn intestines, mouths bleeding from cold sores and carrots. While I was trying to find the appropriate balance between continuing reading and registering that there is still a somewhat normal reality around me, I noticed that the girl next to me is immersed in the Bible. I don't think I've ever seen anybody actually Reading the Bible. Nor at a coffee shop or on the bus or, in this case, at a train station. There is talk about it all the live long day, but not a sight of somebody just casually whipping it out. Of course, it is also possible that I haven't frequented the right places. So, I looked at my book, the one that is clinically dissects and smears the world the other is striving to build, and the other whose message is threatened or at least faded with the existence of the prior. I looked around, and it was only the two of us reading in a long row of people playing on their blackberries, iphones, ipads you name it, anything to not look and recognize each other, while from the Haunted rose cruel, disgusting and illuminating reality of the everyday life and from the Bible rose the promise, guilt and superiority of an other universe. And the girl and I played out the silent war of worlds from within our hands.