20 September - Art + Shit = ?

Late last week I was engaging in a bit of 21st century technology by Skype chatting with a friend on my way home from class. Try not to be too overwhelmed by my (recently acquired) mad skillz in this area, for you may rest assured, I still can't get my head around if I'm actually 'online' or not. Anyways, Skype friend, T, asked me what I was up to that day, to which I responded, 'just going to see some art and shit'. Little did I realise that this flippant (and not particularly funny) remark was to come true.

So, let's get the shit out of the way first - Kunsthaus Tacheles (Arthouse Tacheles). Now, the building itself has a fascinating and wonderful history involving varying uses, ranging from department store to Nazi prison. The shit part comes in, I suspect, probably by the late 1990s - ten years after it had been functioning as an artist-run squat. From what I've read about the space, in its early incarnation as an artist-run initiative, it was genuinely reflective and responsive to the local creative community. But, twenty years on, it appeared to me to be as artistically relevant as Chadstone Shopping Centre. 

Perhaps though I should start by setting the scene. As I entered the stairwell, I was aurally greeted by German commercial radio being piped down from above. Red Hot Chilli Peppers (circa 1992) assaulted my ears, which combined with 'street art' (i.e. really shit graffiti) to assault my eyes. Then I came across the artists' studio spaces. I should apologise in advance to any curators reading this - or indeed anybody who has an understanding and appreciation for the visual arts -  for I'm about to give my unqualified opinion on what I believe art is. Firstly though, it was clear to me that the works on display at Tacheles were a perfect example of what art is not. They were mediocre and embarrassing opportunities to cash in on the street art boom that, realistically died about fifteen years ago. However, that didn't stop the gaggle of tourists buying up bag loads of tack to better relive their cutting edge Berlin art experience from the comfort of their hotel rooms. I left feeling deflated but pretty confident in knowing what art wasn't. 

So, what is art? I think I came closer to the answer when visiting the KW Institute for Contemporary Art, nearby on Auguststrasse. 

After buying my entry ticket, I needed to ask the staff member if I was heading in the right direction, for the space in front of me was totally black. She half nodded while serving somebody else so I still wasn't sure I was on the right track. So I continued to walk down the dark hallway, towards 'the art.' Then I came to the top of some steps which seemed to overlook a cavernous black hole below, with a type of steel structure nearly invisible in the gloom. I could hear footsteps below me but couldn't see anybody moving in the space. I decided to start carefully descending while holding fast to the handrail to guide me through the thoroughly dark space. Internal dialogue went as follows; 'What is this rubbish? I'm going to break my neck it's so dark in here. What happens once I get to the end of these steps? It's pitch black in here. Am I supposed to actually view this mysterious structure close up? Is this art? What's going on? Fuck, I've come the wrong way. They are surely just installing something and I've stumbled onto the work site. Fuck. How embarrassing. I'm going to be humiliated. I'm going to be humiliated in German. I can't defend myself. Fuck! I'm mortified. Oh, there's an exit sign. Okay, that's not an exit. It's so dark in here. Is this art?' etc. etc. Physically I was also exhausted. Preparing for certain mortification and/or a broken rib, my body had been injected with so much adrenaline that my legs were shaking and my heart was racing.

Eventually I found my way back to the steps and my relief was so great that I had to sit down for about ten minutes to calm myself. 

Turns out it was art I was experiencing. The work is by Inigo Manglano-Ovalle and is called Phantom Truck. It's apparently a comment on the Iraq war. But, what I was experiencing actually went to the core of one of my biggest fears - public humiliation. I still maintain I don't really know what art is, but, the cocktail of emotions that I was forced to confront - fear, embarrassment, doubt and wonder - makes me think I've come pretty close

24 August - The theme park on the water

As much as I would like to claim that my interest in Venice was sparked by it playing host to the most important contemporary art event in the world, I'll sheepishly report that it is actually Johnny Depp who is to blame. Johnny and the emaciated figure of Angelina Jolie in the 2010 rom com - The Tourist. I'll not go into too much detail about why I was watching the film, but safe to say it had something to do with finding myself alone in a Brisbane hotel room and in want of some/any entertainment. But, getting back to the point, the film is set in Venice and when I could no longer look upon the gaunt face of Ms Jolie, I remember thinking there was surely no better looking city on this earth. And now I've seen it in the flesh, I think my original guess is quite correct. The theme park reference, stolen from a friend, is accurate in so far as it is so fantastical, it's hard to believe it's a real place where people apparently sit down to dinner every night and send their kids off to school every day.

I should note here however that my first impressions of the place were greatly hindered by the indignity of 34 degree heat, and the weight of 25 kg of suitcase. Upon arrival from the airport to the bus stop nearest my hotel, I was fully prepared that I would need to walk the short distance, as cars are unable to access the small lanes. I was not prepared however for the numerous bridges - all stepped, and the aforementioned blazing heat. Since the bridges are stepped, wheeling a case over them is impossible. One must carry the suitcase. All 25 kg of it. I was so devoid of all my dignity towards the end of the journey that, when a seedy looking character attempted to help me, I slapped his hand and shouted 'no' in his face. He was lucky to get away with only that, as I was so irate I think I may have punched him if he provoked me any further. 

Eventually though, after many map consultations, I found my shabby little room with no canal view in sight, but, with a resident pigeon who likes to coo from my window night and day. After shaking 'ratty' (my new pigeon friend's nickname), from the shutters on five different occasions, I've decided to let him be. This is his town after all, and I'm a mere tourist who gets to enjoy the spoils. 

And enjoying the spoils I have been. Never one to bother too much with maps (having no skill in actually understanding them), I have gotten myself joyfully lost amongst Venice's laneways only to regather my wits over a cold beer in one of the many town squares located conveniently around every corner. I've seen more masterpieces that I can recall or even comprehend, and I've been exposed to some genuinely interesting and exciting contemporary art.

Due to the heat however, I've been unable to indulge in my other great travel passion - eating. Two meals a day and gelati is all the fuel I can handle. Therefore, determined to not leave Italy without at least one great pasta to gush over, I'm going to make my next stop Milan. It is looking to be as hot as Venice, but, thankfully there will be no canals to get in my way.