Looking at the line up for the outdoor, Mayfair-street, sausage-fest exhibition Dog, you have to think, what a bunch of absolute DOGS! The show was curated by Charlie Davenport, who I’ve seen put art on the floor outside before (we’re nothing if not consistent), and it features sixteen works and fifteen artists.
The work was on or above the pavement along Bourdon Place which is around the corner from Gagosian in London. And if you’d guess for a single second that this wasn’t just as blue-chip, you’d be wrong! The first work I encountered was a beige leather handbag, given to me by another attendee on the street, who said, ‘Someone has to hold it at all times.’ Stuck with this artwork, ready to pawn it off on someone else, the handbag started to bark from a portable speaker inside.1
There were still two or three works yet to go up on the back of back-entrance doors or on the pavement next to a withered tree, so if my gleaming review misses anyone’s piece that’s why—or, alternatively, it’s because I hated them. Though, inclusion does not condone these works nor indicate any kind of belligerence either. We (must) move.
Here’s what’s on my camera-roll:
Point one, Sam might not think this is a flattering photograph. My excuse? I can’t remember his good side! Point two, there wasn’t a materials list for any of the works so all we can do is assume that white powder is actually anthrax. Point three, that’s a horse. Point four, this work is made by Jame St Findlay and I honestly can’t stand to write another word on any of his art—I’m sorry!
I remember liking this one. It’s got a very, on yer bike! sort of quality. Calling this ‘Curious-Incident-of-the-Dog-in-the-Nighttime art’; which is a book that opens with an autistic kid finding a dog speared through with a garden pitchfork. Cleaning out the trash, the earth is garbage, the earth is an absolute dawg, dog days are over (F+TM).
This is by the aforementioned Jame St Findlay (photographed right) who remains under a sort of self-imposed critical embargo, but it’s also by Chris Owen (photographed left) so there’s the loophole. I think it’s really cute.
Though what I don’t think is cute, if I may direct your attention to the dog-lead-collar artwork that’s a bit blurry on some moss in the lower left-hand corner, there’s basically no women in this show (that work is by Ella Wragg). Esther said at the opening, there’s got to be a rival exhibition; which would be way better of course, more critically acclaimed; one called Dog 2 or Bitches or something. Or the curator/organisers could hang out with some women (who make up the vast majority of graduating artists), rather than these bunch of gays and straight fags on the street (you all know who you are).
The dog lead on the floor by the tree was looking forlorn and sad. Very ‘The Pound’.
This is by the curator I’ve just been SLAMMING. It’s four John Lewis pillows with the tags still on and five eggs on top. I’m remembering being told that the two eggs held together on the left pillow and the two spaced apart on the right pillow are visual representations for biological sex (XX? XY? I’m not a scientist) and the one lone egg in the middle is fertilised. I’m not gonna say I never would have got there myself, buut…
This one’s called Dog. Teacher would like to see your working out.
And then this one, this is a drawing of a dog. Also looks like there’s sick on the door, caustic throw-up that’s melting the wood away. I don’t know dog breeds, I’m not that kind of person; a German shepherd(?) faded in a window. The blue tone against the warm graphite is beautiful.
Shame about when that guy pushed the door open from the inside and it looked like Clark’s drawing was gonna get scraped against the neighbouring wall! Scary! The risk of guerrilla curation, I suppose. Probably didn’t care, maybe thought everyone would think, ‘Wow, now that’s what you call DIY.’ Putting art on the street and hating women! PUNK!
That’s all I can manage. By the time we got back from an excursion to Whole Foods halfway through, I got a little ginger beer to settle an upset stomach, it was dark. Can’t see art in the dark and frankly don’t want to either.
You know how everyone writes on Instagram about the generous words or reading someone’s done on their show or their book or something? I’m going to try that.
I thought that the numbering on the floor, the walls, demarcating the artworks; there even being a number inside the handbag; gave a couture presentational quality to manoeuvring this interventive street exhibition. Walking with reverence through a Parisian Balenciaga show room. Numbered alphabetically, by surname, not indicators of strength or quality of work. Theo Christy was number one, not for being the best, but because his name begins with a C. And Ella Wragg was not placed sixteenth because her’s was the worst work—it was the worst because she’s a woman!
That’s everything! Don’t forget to follow everyone on Instagram! Art is everywhere!
—Andy x
untitled (puppy), Keith Farquhar & Torsten Lauschmann