I like to go to exhibitions, most of the times to see what is featured and others just to observe the people that attend
(if i get both the exhibition was very worth attending)
them. Sometimes I even find myself in exhibitions without knowing
(something like that happened last year in tate modern in a very intriguing exhibition about global cities)
, but nevertheless they're worth taking time for. I like to take as much as I can, as long as – of course – I can also take the time to digest it over. I suppose one can always learn from it
(being the pedagogic function one of the most important of art if not for the mere fact that makes one think)
though learning comes to me as very patronizing way of putting it. Culture can have other effects on you rather than just learning. Either way, I like going to exhibitions.
I think it is utterly inappropriate to describe the exhibition, for the press has done it thoroughly
(and i am immensely less informed than the press and my knowledge of painting is very limited. actually the things that i know are far less than the ones i know not)
. The organization of the exhibition, despite being named, was essentially chronological.
For the first time in my whole life
(for no recollection i have of attending an exhibition where my spirits were directed towards an intellectual assessment rather than a personal one)
I was not entangled in judgments such as pretty and ugly, or other adjectives of the same kind. What for me was more important was the philosophical layers and conceptual path
(even if the concept was the portrait of a dear one as happened with fellow painters and lovers)
taken from the beginning – whatever it was – to the end
(i kept remembering one of my ma professors that taught inter-arts studies and how he taught me to analyze artistic objects. more important than the final object is the process one endures. i think if i knew then what i know now i would have wrote a fairly better essay)
.
Meanwhile a girl in a very short short-skirt was taking notes on the exhibition in her moleskine. She was writing the captions on every room
(sometimes i wondered how she managed her high heels)
until a lady came to her and explained all the captions were available on the free booklet. She kept writing, maybe out of shame, as if she was seeing beyond the written words, to a deeper meaning conveyed by her pen to her paper.
One thing that caught my eye in the end
(beside the couple that felt so familiar to the paintings as if they had been in south kensington studio and just talked it over with the arrogance of the ones that alone know more than the rest of the world together)
was how Umberto Eco's “On Ungliness” was being sold side by side with the catalog of the exhibition and other books related with Francis Bacon. I think it was very smart to do that, for the people who cannot deviate from the beauty judgment
(that dangerous and rather suggestive judgment where beauty is connoted with good and ugly with evil)
. Everyone knows that Francis Bacon's paintings are gruesome and ghastly but
(the same way we cannot avoid looking at someone else's vomit on the street)
it is very hard to ignore and dismiss them. They lingered, up to today, in my dreams
(and this was a week ago)
.
(if i get both the exhibition was very worth attending)
them. Sometimes I even find myself in exhibitions without knowing
(something like that happened last year in tate modern in a very intriguing exhibition about global cities)
, but nevertheless they're worth taking time for. I like to take as much as I can, as long as – of course – I can also take the time to digest it over. I suppose one can always learn from it
(being the pedagogic function one of the most important of art if not for the mere fact that makes one think)
though learning comes to me as very patronizing way of putting it. Culture can have other effects on you rather than just learning. Either way, I like going to exhibitions.
I think it is utterly inappropriate to describe the exhibition, for the press has done it thoroughly
(and i am immensely less informed than the press and my knowledge of painting is very limited. actually the things that i know are far less than the ones i know not)
. The organization of the exhibition, despite being named, was essentially chronological.
For the first time in my whole life
(for no recollection i have of attending an exhibition where my spirits were directed towards an intellectual assessment rather than a personal one)
I was not entangled in judgments such as pretty and ugly, or other adjectives of the same kind. What for me was more important was the philosophical layers and conceptual path
(even if the concept was the portrait of a dear one as happened with fellow painters and lovers)
taken from the beginning – whatever it was – to the end
(i kept remembering one of my ma professors that taught inter-arts studies and how he taught me to analyze artistic objects. more important than the final object is the process one endures. i think if i knew then what i know now i would have wrote a fairly better essay)
.
Meanwhile a girl in a very short short-skirt was taking notes on the exhibition in her moleskine. She was writing the captions on every room
(sometimes i wondered how she managed her high heels)
until a lady came to her and explained all the captions were available on the free booklet. She kept writing, maybe out of shame, as if she was seeing beyond the written words, to a deeper meaning conveyed by her pen to her paper.
One thing that caught my eye in the end
(beside the couple that felt so familiar to the paintings as if they had been in south kensington studio and just talked it over with the arrogance of the ones that alone know more than the rest of the world together)
was how Umberto Eco's “On Ungliness” was being sold side by side with the catalog of the exhibition and other books related with Francis Bacon. I think it was very smart to do that, for the people who cannot deviate from the beauty judgment
(that dangerous and rather suggestive judgment where beauty is connoted with good and ugly with evil)
. Everyone knows that Francis Bacon's paintings are gruesome and ghastly but
(the same way we cannot avoid looking at someone else's vomit on the street)
it is very hard to ignore and dismiss them. They lingered, up to today, in my dreams
(and this was a week ago)
.
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